


Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God

by gwyllion



Category: 00QAD, James Bond (Craig movies), London Spy
Genre: M/M, NaNoWriMo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 05:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12858153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: Agents live dangerous lives full of romance and intrigue. They rely on various safehouses in which they take shelter when necessary. A neat row of stitches here, a bandaged ankle there, supplies diminish over time and they must be replenished.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God was hastily written for NaNoWriMo 2017. Unreliable narrator. Unreliable author. Unreliable editing. Unreliable everything. Also, a bit cracky in places. James Bond and London Spy fusion with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it shout-outs to Dr. Who and Criminal Minds. Thanks to Pettikotes, whose beautiful artwork kicked-off the opening scene of my fic and got me jump-started on this year’s NaNoWriMo. [ Check it out here.](http://pettikotes.tumblr.com/post/156019458090/i-need-a-medic-first-finished-work-in-the) Thanks to BrihnaAO3, whose [To Liars and Killers Everywhere,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159089) a sequel to [Secrets, Lies, and Family Ties,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675854) gave me the idea to write a fic about the person who re-stocks the MI6 safehouses and made me eager to explore such a character. Thanks to my cheer-reader, [ Gillian, ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann)who encourages me when she probably shouldn’t. I had a great deal of fun writing this fic. I hope that others find it as entertaining to read it as I did to write it. Bear in mind that this was written between November 1, 2017 and November 30, 2017. It is not the best example of my work.

“I need a medic,” Q stuttered out the words, his voice in a panic.

Bond only tightened his grip, one hand in Q’s hair, the other on his Walther. “We have some unfinished business to take care of first, Quartermaster,” he said as he pulled the trigger.

Q shuddered and buried his face in Bond’s neck.

Bond fired shot after shot, taking down Q’s captors. He only realized he still clutched Q’s trembling body with his free arm after the last man fell. The metallic smell of spent bullets filled Bond’s nostrils. Q’s heart pounded its jackrabbit rhythm, so strong and urgent that Bond could feel it through their layers of clothing.

When the last kidnapper’s head thudded against the warehouse floor, Bond turned his attention to Q. He was surprised that he still wore his glasses, although they were smudged blurry from the perils of combat. Besides the split lip and the cut on his forehead, Q looked none worse for wear, although his suit was ruined. The tattered mess had been one of Q’s favourites, although it was ugly as sin- a neutral brown with a herringbone pattern, shades of blue striped through the weave. Blood stained the lapels, buttons hung loose. The smell of sweat and fear sullied the fine fabric. Bond knew all too well that being held captive for a week did that to a suit.

“What the hell took you so long?” Q asked, cradling his left wrist to his chest.

“Wild goose chase,” Bond said. “Whoever these blokes are working for knew to send us on a futile quest for your whereabouts.”

“Someone close to MI6 then,” Q said, adjusting the hold on his wrist. “Dammit, this hurts.”

“It’s possible,” Bond said. “R has some leads she’s running down.”

“I need to get back to Q-Branch,” Q gritted out through clenched teeth. He started for the door, stepping over fallen bodies, as if he hadn’t noticed that Bond had dispatched the four men who had held him against his will since last Wednesday.

“You’re not going anywhere at the moment,” Bond said.

Q turned to face Bond. He looked entirely displeased.

“This is completely unacceptable. To think that I set my laptop to self-destruct and they didn’t even bother to look at it,” Q said. He stepped over a body to retrieve his laptop from where it had fallen on the floor in the melee. He packed it into his messenger bag that he had with him on the Tube when he was taken. “We’re leaving for Q-Branch now.”

“R, I have four of them down, do you have us on the CCTV yet?” Bond asked, louder than necessary so he could be confident that R would hear him through his communication tech and Q would grasp the lengths to which Bond went to rescue him.

“Is Q secure?” R asked.

Q pushed his glasses up onto his nose and slumped against the panelled wall.

Bond looked Q over, from head to toe. His appearance was fairly impressive, considering that he undoubtedly put up a fight against the idiots who were brazen enough to snatch him off the Tube in broad daylight.

“You’re safe now,” Bond assured him. “I’m taking you home.”

“I think my wrist is broken,” Q said, using his right hand to hold the left hand steady.

“Not so fast,” R’s voice echoed in Bond’s earpiece.

Bond quirked an eyebrow and waited for further instructions. It would be just like R to cock things up after they had arrived at this point of the rescue. He knew he could rely on Q to make sure the way was clear on a mission. Walking out into a hail of bullets was the last thing he needed, so he tried to be patient with Q’s second-in-command.

“M wants you to take Q to a safehouse,” R said.

Bond exhaled, slightly relieved that apparently R meant that there were no more assailants in the warehouse where Q had been confined.

“R?” Q asked, loud enough to be heard over the earpiece. “I’m injured. I need to go to medical.”

“You said he looked okay. Sitrep, Bond?” R demanded.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Bond said. “It will be my pleasure to take care of the Quartermaster’s injuries.” Bond had stitched and bandaged enough of his own injuries over the years. He knew how to make neat stitches, if they were necessary. The safe house would have supplies to splint Q’s wrist until he could get a proper X-ray.

Q’s shoulders slumped, resigned to his fate.

“We have Double-oh Three and a team heading to Q’s flat now. Whoever is pulling his kidnapper’s strings might be waiting for him to get back home. Give us twenty-four hours,” R said.

“She’s right,” Q said. “There’s more than these four involved. It’s a network. They sought information alright, but not from me.”

Bond eyed Q suspiciously. “From who, then?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Someone I worked with before. Maybe someone from MI6 or Five,” Q said.

“Bond, you need to bring Q to Havisham 137,” R said.

“Got it,” Bond said. He knew the location of the safehouse where R sent him. Like all agents, he was required to memorize the locations of the safehouses MI6 used in the city and abroad.

“Only for twenty-four hours,” Q said.

Bond tapped his earpiece and gave Q a wry grin. “I’ll drive.”

Q snorted and followed Bond out of the warehouse.

~

Barbara Bradford hated math. She couldn’t solve a puzzle, if a gun were held to her head. She liked pretty things, bits of lace or a particularly attractive sheet of parchment. A drawing of a flower on a greeting card. A smooth-sounding word used in a poem, nothing that could be classified or categorized into a pile of likes and dislikes. She loved Mucha’s Autumn, but she had no affection for Summer. When she purchased a packet of postcards with the images, she used Autumn as a bookmark and tore Summer into shreds that she tossed into the bin.

To say she was ugly would have been a bit of an overstatement. To say that she was average would have been an understatement. To call her a beauty would be a boldfaced lie. Because of her plain looks and marginal intelligence, her potential for marriage or a career were few.

When she became an adult, she wandered the streets of London, hoping to get a big break.

None came.

It was by great luck that her father, George, had run into Ingmar, an old friend from uni who owned a collection of upscale eateries in the Greater London area. George learned that a girl like Barbara might expect to find work there. Without the brains needed to go to uni, Barbara was destined to live at home on a job-seeker’s allowance. The notion of it wore thin on the Bradfords, who barely scraped by on an actuary’s salary and were hoping to enjoy some form of retirement without their adult daughter in tow.

George mentioned the opening in the waitstaff to Barbara over a dinner of chicken and dumplings. Of course, Barbara was wary, since she had never waited tables before. In fact, the only thing she waited for was a husband to sweep her off her feet. The husband never arrived, nor did an education, or a hobby, or anything that might occupy Barbara’s years.

Barbara had few talents. One thing that she excelled at was identifying cat breeds. Although she never owned a cat, she studied their photographs in magazines and watched programmes about them on the telly. She knew the difference between a brown classic tabby Maine Coon and a mackerel tabby Norwegian Forest Cat. A black British Shorthair and a Bombay. A classic tabby with white straight-eared Scottish Fold and the moggie that caught mice in her cousin’s barn.

Because of her attention to these strange details, Barbara’s mother, Elizabeth, thought Barbara might be autistic. She made Barbara take a quiz she found in the back of a psychology magazine. When Barbara was found to be on the borderline between autism and typical, Elizabeth gave up the pursuit of further testing and accommodation. Barbara would be whatever she was, and nothing could change that. There was no point in labelling the child with a _maybe_ or a _perhaps_ , when it would only serve to handicap her further.

As it was, Barbara was bloody stupid in social arenas.

When she was nine, her teacher, a Mrs. Muriel Pike, told George and Elizabeth that Barbara was awkward. She was so fat that she tripped over her own feet in the schoolyard. Her penmanship was atrocious. She had no friends. All these condemnations humiliated Barbara’s parents, who in turn, passed their fury on to Barbara. She was punished for Muriel’s remarks about her inadequacies, which, although they were true, could not be resolved. Barbara did what she could. She tried to make friends among the other girls of her class and her age, but their so-called friendships only made Barbara miserable. She was jealous of Joanne’s pretty clothing, and envious of Janet’s foul mouth. Sophie wore a corset under her clothes and would let any boy get a glimpse of her nipples for a mere ten pence. For a pound, she’d let a boy squeeze them with both hands. Barbara had no interest in a profitable scheme. She’d let the boys squeeze her titties for free.

When she became a teenager, Barbara gave Rosemary a birthday party at her house, hoping it would seal their friendship and win the approval of the Bradford’s. If they saw that Barbara was such good friends with another girl that she would throw her a party, surely that would elevate her to the status of beloved daughter in their eyes.

Wrong.

The birthday party was an uncomfortable affair with weak tea and scones that Barbara burnt while baking. Of the dozen girls that were invited, only five came. Each of them left the party within the first hour, having some place better to go. By the time dinner arrived, only Barbara and Rosemary remained. They spent the dinner hour stretched out on the floor of Barbara’s room, reading comic books until Rosemary’s father came to collect her.

Barbara was an alien among these girls. And, try though she did, none of them reciprocated any form of the friendship that Barbara had tried to offer them. It was their loss, Barbara sighed. She went on with her friendless life until she finished school, barely squeezing by with a passing grade and no hope for attending uni.

So, when the opportunity to be a waitress at Ingmar’s Le Papillon, she reluctantly pursued it.

~

Havisham 137 looked like a normal hotel room, but it was nothing like a standard Premiere Inn suite.

MI6 had many such places tucked into the city office buildings and quiet streets of the surrounding towns where roads led from London like the spokes of a great wheel that turned the world and all they knew of it.

Havisham 137 was one of the nicer safe-houses Q had seen in his tenure at MI6. He followed Bond into the room and shrugged off his jacket, careful to avoid jostling his wrist. He sat on the edge of the bed. He hoped to God there was plenty of paracetamol in the medical kit.

It was bad enough that Mallory had sent Bond to look after him, but he hadn’t showered in a week and he wasn’t about to ask Bond for help getting cleaned up. The smarmy agent was forever lurking around Q-Branch, promising sexual favours to Q and his minions in exchange for tech that he would surely damage beyond all recognition once he got it out of Q’s sight. Q shuddered to think of Bond’s forays with the female marks he pursued for the purpose of defending Queen and Country. It was a wonder he came back to medical free of STDs. Q liked a roll in the hay as much as the next bloke, but even he had a limit to what was proper safety protocols for the prevention of disease.

Bond draped his bespoke suit jacket on the back of the desk chair and went to the loo. Q could hear him taking a piss before he rummaged through the vanity drawers. Q hoped he found the medical kit.

“I’m taking a shower first,” Q announced from the bed. He didn’t care that his wrist was throbbing, he wanted to wash his hair and get the grime of captivity in the old warehouse off his skin.

“I’ll let you go first,” Bond said. “But you know what the shrinks at Six will say, if we don’t follow procedure.”

“Nothing happened,” Q said. He didn’t have to pretend that he misunderstood Bond’s concern. Rape was a common enough form of torture for both women and men, but there was no hint of that brand of physical violence while Q was in captivity.

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Bond asked, medical kit in hand. He sat on the bed beside Q.

There was something about Bond. Even when he tried to sound sincere, Q sensed the arrogance in his tone. It was part of his charm, Q supposed. Bond had been an agent longer than any other in MI6’s ranks. Some might say that it was time for him to retire, but despite his efforts to do so via death, marriage, and abuse of millions of pounds of equipment, still he remained one of MI6’s most steadfast soldiers.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Bond,” Q said. “My captors seemed more keen to extract information from a third party, than from me. The only reason I’m injured at all was because I fought back when they dragged me into their interrogation room.”

Bond looked sincere, a warm light washing over his face, softening his expression. “Remind me to teach you some hand to hand combat when you’re feeling up to it. Your wrist is injured because you punch like a girl.”

Q ignored the insult. “I’m injecting myself with Smartblood as soon as I get back to Q-Branch,” he said. “What the hell took you so long? They hadn’t even taken me out of the city.”

“How’s the wrist?” Bond asked, glancing at Q’s wrist that rested in his lap.

“It’s broken, or maybe only sprained if I’m lucky. It aches, and my fingers are tingling,” Q said, stretching the fingers of his injured left hand.

Bond slid his hands under Q’s wrist to support it. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. He watched Q’s face as he gently manipulated the wrist, turning Q’s hand and flexing it from side to side.

Q jumped when a sharp pain pierced the sensitive hand. “I really don’t think you should be fucking with it,” Q said.

“Who said anything about fucking?” Bond asked with a grin.

Q drew his hand way from Bond. “You’re incorrigible,” he said.

Bond looked anything but apologetic.

Q got to his feet and made his way across the room to the loo. “I’m taking that shower now.”

“Give a call if you need help scrubbing your back,” Bond said.

“Arse,” Q quipped.

Q closed the door behind him and assessed his appearance in the mirror that spanned the length of the room. He removed his glasses and set them on the vanity. As soon as he took in the dark circles beneath his eyes from lack of sleep, he wished he hadn’t gazed at his image in the mirror.

The split lip from when an assailant’s fist connected with his mouth had stopped bleeding, at least. Q felt fortunate that he hadn’t lost any teeth. His dentist admonished him about flossing often enough. He could only imagine the dressing down he’d get if he made an appointment for a cracked or broken tooth from being in a fistfight.

With his right hand, he pushed his greasy hair out of his eyes. He was due for a trim, which only made his long hair matted into an unsightly mess because of the neglect. He glanced toward the tub, grateful that the angels who replenished the safehouse supplies had sense enough to stock some quality hair care products.

There was no use in prolonging the inevitable. He turned the faucets so the water streamed hot from them. He undid his fly and let his trousers sink to the floor. Carefully, he used his left hand in concert with the right to skim off his briefs. He emptied his bladder while he stepped out of his pants that he would happily relegate to the bin, along with the rest of his clothes.

He didn’t bother trying to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. Instead, he yanked at the collar and tore the garment off, buttons scattering on the tile floor. There was no sense in saving the clothes. He would be glad to forget any reminder of the past seven days that he spent wondering if MI6 would send someone to find him. Q tensed his jaw and bid the emotions away. Of course they would send someone to find him. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. Perhaps he had a mild touch of PTSD, nothing that he should worry about now. A psych evaluation would be in his future as soon as he and Bond got the clearance to return to MI6.

He stepped into the shower, and took a deep breath of steamy air.

With Bond looking after him, there was nothing to worry about. Together, they’d get to the bottom of the kidnapping, and find out who was behind it and what they hoped to gain. Q let the hot water run over his head. The long strands of wet dark hair covered his eyes limply. It felt amazing.

He did his best to open the shampoo, but with a damaged hand, it proved difficult. He was tempted to ask Bond for some help, but he figured the agent would never let him live it down. Q allowed himself a minute of reminiscence about the times he was on comms when Bond befriended a mark in a hotel shower. Thinking of Bond in bed made Q hard. Despite Bond’s attention and finesse at using seduction to extract information, the unsuspecting lass would often end up dead at worst or in the UKPPS program at best, but even those sunny circumstances were few and far between.

Q ignored his hardening dick and wrenched the shampoo bottle open.

“Need any help in there?” Bond called from the doorway as Q squirted a dollop of shampoo into his hand.

Q was grateful for the opaque shower door. “I’ve got everything under control,” he called back.

He had no intention of encouraging Bond. He could only imagine what the agent would do with an invitation into the loo. He wasn’t about to give him a glimpse of his nude body. For all he knew, Bond couldn’t resist anything on two legs and he wasn’t about to have his reputation with his MI6 superiors ruined by one night spent as Bond’s boy toy, no matter how tempting it might be to take Bond up on an offer.

Q applied the shampoo to the top of his head and set the shampoo bottle back on the shelf that lined the shower. Aveda, Q noted, one of his favourite brands. He scrubbed the shampoo through his hair, one-handed. The suds ran down his lean body. The hot water massaged his strained muscles. After his ordeal the heat felt wonderful.

After he rinsed the soap out of his hair, he applied conditioner, of course. He wasn’t a goddamn barbarian. He figured his lack of personal care over the past week entitled him to some pampering. The safehouse was far from the luxury accommodations he had in mind, but it would have to suffice for now.

He worked the soap into a lather and scrubbed at his skin. The scent of jasmine comforted his senses. Using only his good hand, he rubbed the washcloth over his chest, before draping it over his face to hold in the steam from the shower. He had gone far too long without moisturizer and this was the best he could do.

He dipped his head under the water again and let the rivulets run down his back. The heat from the shower had relieved some of the pain in his wrist. He imagined that some ice and some anti-inflammatory meds would make it feel even better.

There was no sense in delaying. He let the washcloth linger down his abdomen, then he moved it lower, frothing the hair of his treasure trail until he worked his pubes into a frenzy of lather. His cock, which had begun to stir with thoughts of Bond’s conquests, remained only slightly interested. Q attributed it to the tiredness he felt after sleeping on the cold concrete floor of the warehouse. When he was in captivity, he found himself hoping to be interrogated, as it would allow him some time to investigate the kidnappers’ motives. They seemed intent on using Q as bait to torture some unseen operative that was kept under watch in another part of the city—if he or she was in the city at all. For all Q could figure out, this unfortunate unseen captive could be miles away, in another country even.

Q knew of no one who would be affected by threats against him. His parents were dead and, as an only child, he had few known relatives. Those who had infrequent contact with him could have cared less about his condition. He considered himself lucky to get a Christmas card every year or a notification that one of his elderly aunts had passed away. To say his family wasn’t close would be an understatement.

When the water pulsed as the heater called for more heat, Q realized that he had hogged the shower for long enough. He quickly washed his now completely disinterested cock and let the showerhead wash the conditioner from his hair and rinse the remaining soap from his body.

He turned the water faucets to the off position and reached for a towel. It was amazing how much humans relied on their hands to do things. For a moment, Q almost lost his balance, but the fear of injuring his wrist further when he reached out to steady himself was enough for him to regain his balance without the use of his hands.

He patted his hair dry with a fluffy white towel before dragging it over his torso to absorb the water. Using care, he manipulated the towel so it wrapped around his narrow waist. Pushing a few strands of wet hair into place, he decided it was the best he could do to tend to his appearance. He had every excuse in the world to have a bad hair day. He cracked the door open to allow some of the steam to escape.

When the steam cleared somewhat, Q stared into the mirror at his face. The split lip had started to bleed anew, so he held a washcloth to it.

“Bond,” he called from the loo.

“What do you need?” Bond asked, appearing all too soon in the doorway.

“Can you see if we have any ice?” Q asked. He felt self-conscious as Bond’s eyes roved over his half-naked body. There was no use in reacting to it. Bond was a colleague. He was there to help. He wasn’t some goddamn fuck-buddy Q had picked up at a gay soiree.

“There’s a refrigerator with a freezer,” Bond said. “I’ll check.” His hands left the doorframe as he wandered back to the bedroom.

The cut on Q’s forehead looked better than the one on his lip. It was less painful too. He couldn’t remember how he got it, which was only slightly disconcerting. When you’ve been kidnapped, one day blends into the next, one injury dealt by a captor made no more difference when you weren’t sure if you were going to see your own flat again or your own cats.

The cats.

“Bond!”

“I’m right here,” Bond said with a handful of ice cubes wrapped in a tea towel.

“My cats,” Q said. “Tell me—”

“Eve has been looking after them,” Bond said. “Not to worry.”

Q breathed a sigh of relief. He had Pampuria and Turing set up to be fed via an automatic feeder, but they would have run out of kibble four days ago. Q only used the device when he couldn’t make it home from work on time to feed them. It was a safeguard that he used whenever he had to spend a late night at MI6. Eve had volunteered to cat sit for him last year when he went to a cyber security conference in Washington DC. She had offered to return the flat’s key to him, but he opted to have her keep it, just in case of an emergency. It was a good thing that he did. He’d hate to think of his cats meowing at the door of his flat, waiting for him to come home. He shuddered. The two fluffy creatures he shared his home with were closer to him than most humans. Ah, well, such was the life of the MI6 Quartermaster.

“Thanks,” Q said accepting the parcel of ice from Bond.

Bond watched from the doorway as Q applied the ice to his lip. He supposed he should be getting dressed, seeing that the water droplets that clung to his body had dissipated.

“I can take it from here,” he said, watching Bond give up on an attempt to steal his virtue with his eyes.

The loo in the safehouse had a tall cabinet that ran from the ceiling to the floor. Q opened the cabinet door and found exactly what he expected. A dozen shelves were organized with all manner of clothing that an agent, MI6 operative, or a person they were protecting, would need should they come up short. One shelf contained men’s pants in sizes Small to Extra Large. White T-shirts in similar sizes filled another shelf. Track bottoms in four sizes, hoodies, long-sleeved shirts, socks, jackets in assorted sizes greeted anyone, male or female, who found themselves in need of clean comfortable clothing during their stay at the safehouse. There was even a collection of sports bras for the ladies. The fashion left much to be desired, but in a pinch, MI6 provided whatever anyone in need of protection could use to get by until they were freed from house arrest or able to return to their own home.

Q grabbed a pair of grey track bottoms and a blue long-sleeved shirt from the collection. He tore open the plastic sanitary wrapping and got dressed, careful not to further stress his injured wrist. He cleaned the steam from his glasses and put them back on. He tilted his head from side to side, trying to assess the incoming headache that demanded his attention. It was high time he got some anti-inflammatory medication into him. But first, there was the matter of getting the socks onto his feet that had become chilly on the tile floor. Unfortunately, he couldn’t even try to manage it one-handed.

“I’ll need some help with these,” Q said as he stepped into the bedroom, a pair of warm socks in his hand.

“It will be my pleasure,” Bond said, his voice smooth like butter.

Q sat in the club chair and glanced around the room. There was only one bed, queen sized, if he guessed right.

Bond sauntered over to the chair and dropped to his knees. He looked far too put together for someone who had spent a week searching the shitty breadcrumb trail left behind by Q’s captors. Too cool for someone who had just shot four men dead.

Q handed the socks to Bond and said, “Well, get on with it.”

“Yes, Quartermaster,” Bond said, slipping a hand underneath Q’s left foot.

Bond’s touch was warm and wholly arousing. He caressed the arch of Q’s shower-warmed foot before placing it on his upper thigh. Q could feel Bond’s muscular thigh flexing beneath the sole of his foot.

Bond made a production out of rolling the bottom of Q’s track bottoms up before scrunching the top of the sock down so Q could dip his toes into it. He then smoothed the sock onto Q’s foot.

If Q didn’t know better, he’d say that he had watched Bond dress Q in the sock the same way he rolled a condom onto his erect cock.

Q shook the thought from his head and huffed out his disapproval. Bond shifted his eyes to Q’s face. Q dropped his left foot to the carpet and placed his right foot on Bond’s left thigh, silently asking for the second sock to be rolled onto his foot.

Bond quirked an eyebrow and continued to dress the Quartermaster in his socks, rolling the second sock over his bare foot. He squeezed Q’s foot between his warm hands before gently placing it on the carpeted floor.

“All set, then,” he asked, raising his eyes to meet Q’s.

“Thank you,” Q said in the silence of the safehouse room.

“It looks like your lip has stopped bleeding?” Bond asked.

Q tentatively licked the spot that had split open. “Much better,” he said.

“Let’s find something for you to eat. You must be starving.”

“Not really,” Q said, resting his wrist on the armrest of the chair.

Bond looked at Q, a question in his eyes.

“They actually fed me very well,” Q said. “That was the strange part about it.”

“Usually, when I get kidnapped, I’m beaten half to death before I can get a word in edgewise,” Bond said, rising to his feet.

Q snorted. “I almost wish I hadn’t set my laptop to self-destruct. They didn’t have any interest in it at all.”

“It’s very peculiar,” Bond said, opening the small refrigerator that was nested into the cabinet beneath the television. “You have no idea what they wanted?”

“They were using me for something,” Q said. “I don’t know what.”

“Ahh, the safehouse fairy has left a bottle of Merlot,” Bond said.

“Thank heavens for small miracles,” Q said. “I could do with a nip. Give it here.”

Bond busied himself with pouring a glass of wine for himself and one for Q.

“Take these, too,” Bond said, grabbing a packet of paracetamol from the cabinet. He tore the packet open and shook four tablets into his hand. “Here you go.”

“Oh, thank God,” Q said. “I’ve got the start of what promises to be a splitting headache.”

“You should have mentioned that,” Bond said, standing by with Q’s glass of wine.

“It just started,” Q replied. He gratefully accepted the meds and swallowed them in one gulp that he washed down with a swig of Merlot.

“For fine dining, it looks like we have Waitrose’s finest beef lasagne. Or, if you prefer, a Charlie Bigham’s cottage pie,” Bond said.

“That sounds better than some meals I’ve found in a safe house,” Q said. “I’ll go with the lasagne.”

“You have every right to complain,” Bond said. “But with any luck, you’ll be out of here by tomorrow evening and you’ll be safe and sound in your own bed.”

“That would be heavenly,” Q said, exhaling deeply with a sigh.

“And you may be in luck. I think I spied a wedge of Parmesan in the refrigerator,” Bond said, rummaging around in the refrigerator that had been stocked with ready meals and an assortment of snacks and beverages that an agent might use during his sequestered time in the room.

“Who says you can’t make a romantic dinner with the odds and ends you find in a safehouse fridge?” Q asked.

“If only we had some candlelight,” Bond said.

Q snorted. “If you can grab some more ice while you’re up, I’d like to immerse my wrist in it for a bit,” Q said.

“At your service, Quartermaster,” Bond said. He removed the film from the package of lasagne and set the microwave timer to five minutes. While the meal cooked, he filled the ice bucket with fresh ice for Q’s wrist.

Q let Bond settle his wrist in the ice. He winced at the sharp feeling of the ice on his skin. Fortunately, the wine was giving him a slight buzz. He took another sip of Merlot and let the smooth liquid slide down his throat, warming his belly.

“There’s an elastic bandage in the medical kit,” Bond said before turning back to the cabinet and turning the electric kettle on. “If you’d like, I’ll wrap your wrist up before we fall sleep.”

“Thanks,” Q said without remarking on Bond’s implication that they were sleeping together. Rest, ice, compression, elevation… it was basic first aid, but Bond made it sound like a seduction. No wonder he succeeded in the field when matters of the country’s security depended on his suave touch.

Beep, beep, beep, the microwave announced that the dinner was heated through. Bond used a hand towel from the loo to remove the hot container from the microwave. He set it on the cabinet top and tore the remaining film from the package.

I don’t suppose you’ll want me to feed you,” Bond said. He retrieved the small bistro table from beside the cabinet and placed it in front of Q. Next, he draped the hand towel over his arm and set the hot food on Q’s table.

“Fortunately, I’m right-handed,” Q said. “It can’t be too difficult to manage the lasagne using a fork.”

“You’ll let me know if you require assistance,” Bond said with a smile. He then leaned forward to tuck a napkin under Q’s chin.

“I will,” Q said, rolling his eyes. He had to admit that Bond could be charming sometimes, if not a bit over the top.

Q sliced off a bite of lasagne with his fork. Steam rose from the hot ready-meal. Before he could take a bite, Bond was at the table again.

“Freshly grated Parmesan for monsieur?” he asked.

Q laughed. This was really too much.

“Yes, please,” Q said, leaning back from the table while Bond used a knife to shave some cheese from the block. He let it fall onto the lasagne.

“Will there be anything else?” Bond asked.

Just then, the kettle whistled that the water was ready.

“My tea,” Q said. “I believe you know how I like it.”

“Indeed, I do,” said Bond with a wink.

Bond made Q laugh. Although Q had just spent a week away from his work, away from his cats, and away from his flat, Bond’s antics brought some humour. After all Q had endured this week, it felt good to laugh. He was grateful when Bond placed a steaming cup of Earl Grey on the bistro table.

“Do you want some of this?” Q asked, motioning to the lasagne with his fork.

“No thank you,” Bond said. “I’m prepared to suffer all forms of indignity in caring for you, but I’m not at the point where I would enjoy a safehouse ready-meal.”

“Suit yourself,” Q said. “Although I’ll admit, it’s far from a dinner at Sartoria.”

He set down his fork and picked up the cup of tea, blowing on the hot contents before taking a sip. Although his captors had offered him tea over the course of the week, there was nothing like the Earl Grey he could drink in freedom. The hot tea made his split lip needle him with pain, but it was a small price to pay for his tea.

“I’ll take to dinner there,” Bond said.

“Excuse me?” Q asked, turning his wrist in the bucket of ice.

Bond knocked back another glass of wine.

“To make up for this dining ordeal. I’ll take you to Sartoria on Savile Row,” Bond said. “I know the owner. He’ll give us a good table.”

Bond stood and refilled Q’s wine glass.

“I think I’ve had enough,” Q said, stopping him mid-pour. “I wouldn’t want to pass out before brushing my teeth.”

“Such a lightweight,” Bond said, tutting.

Q resumed eating the lasagne while Bond retrieved the medical kit and set it on the bistro table.

“Eve will be pleased to know you’re taking such good care of me,” Q said.

“You and Moneypenny are thick as thieves,” Bond said. “I wouldn’t dream of treating you in a way that she would find unacceptable.”

“Of course not,” Q said. “May I have that towel over here?”

“This one?” Bond asked, taking the towel from where he had left it on the cabinet.

“I think my wrist is suitably numb now,” Q said, taking his hand from where it had rested in the ice.”

“Feeling better?” Bond asked as he laid the towel on the table for Q’s hand.

“It doesn’t feel too bad now,” Q said.

Bond moved in closer and examined Q’s wrist.

Q watched, relieved that he felt little pain in his wrist, compared to how he felt when Bond burst onto the scene and dispatched his kidnappers. Bond stretched the fingers, one by one, watching for Q’s reaction. He then manipulated the wrist from side to side. He opened and closed Q’s fist and Q went along with the movements, allowing Bond’s warm hands to test the damaged bones and sore tendons.

“I don’t think it’s broken,” Bond said.

“You would know,” Q said. He had read Bond’s medical reports and he knew the agent had suffered from broken bones, gunshot wounds, messy lacerations, and worse over the years. He trusted his judgement when it came to assessing a fracture.

“I think we should wrap it up, if you’re ready,” Bond suggested.

“I’m finished with my meal,” Q said. “How do you want me?”

“Let’s clear this away, first,” Bond said, taking the empty lasagne container and tossing it into the bin.

Q stretched his arm onto the top of the table.

“And let’s take care of this,” Bond said, returning to dab Q’s mouth with the napkin he had tucked into the collar of the blue MI6-issued long-sleeved shirt.

It hurt to smile, but Q couldn’t help himself. He felt so relaxed, so comforted by Bond’s attention to him while on official field duty. For the first time all week, he felt sure that everything would work out fine. He drank down half of the wine in his glass. He figured if Bond was going to toy around with his wrist, he could use all the pain relief he could get.

Bond took the elastic bandage from the medical kit and knelt on the carpet at Q’s feet.

Q curled his toes, imagining Bond on his knees in a different scenario entirely. The warm socks that Bond had dressed him in felt cosy.

“Are you ready?” Bond asked, meeting Q’s eyes with his own.

“Do your worst,” Q said.

Bond lifted Q’s wrist from the table and supported it in his left hand. With his right hand, he deftly wrapped the elastic bandage around Q’s wrist. He took care to apply the proper amount of pressure. Not too tight, not too loose. He wrapped the length of bandage between Q’s thumb and around the base of his fingers, around and around so that the injured hand would stay stable in the night.

Q was grateful to have such a skilled agent as Bond looking after him when he couldn’t get to medical for immediate treatment by the MI6 medical staff.

“There,” Bond said, at last, when he had finished wrapping the hand.

“It feels pretty good,” Q said, flexing his fingers.

“I aim to please,” Bond said. “Now, if you’re done with your tea and your wine, it’s time we got you to bed.”

Q suddenly felt very tired. He carefully rose from the table and went to the loo to piss again. Inside a drawer, he found an assortment of packaged toothbrush and toothpaste kits and selected one for himself. He tore open the packaging with his teeth and ran the water in the sink. With his teeth brushed and his bathroom needs taken care of, he was ready for sleep. Only when he entered the bedroom did he realize that Bond had not yet showered.

“You must be exhausted,” Q said. Surely it must take a lot out of someone, to rescue their superior from kidnappers, kill four men, travel to the safe house, make dinner, and tend to a wounded Quartermaster. Bond was nothing short of amazing.

Bond had apparently finished cleaning up. He wiped his hands on the towel. “I can’t fool you,” he said with a grin.

“I’m going to lie down now—”

“I’m going to shower. I’ll sleep on the floor when I’m ready,” Bond said.

Q hadn’t considered that Bond might sleep on the floor. Without pause, he said, “Of course you won’t sleep on the floor. There will be plenty of room in the bed for the two of us.”

Bond grinned lasciviously, “Why, Quartermaster, I thought you’d never ask.”

“Knock off the shit, Bond,” Q said. “Get washed up and I’ll be asleep before you. Just don’t wake me up.”

~


	2. Chapter 2

 

Alex woke like he did every day, an electronic monitoring bracelet attached to his ankle. In the sparse room, the overhead lights turned on automatically when Alex moved through his morning routine. He used the toilet and washed his face and hands. He donned a fresh pair of trousers and a clean shirt. He wished that he had his suits and his silk ties that he had become accustomed to wearing while he lived in London. The routine was hard to forget and hard to live without. When he was ready for the day, Alex waited for the cardboard box that contained his breakfast to be delivered by one of the lackeys.

He hoped they would send Spencer this time. The young American with warm brown eyes had a kind voice and he seemed to empathize with Alex. He enjoyed spending time with Spencer. Sometimes they played chess together to pass the time. Sometimes Alex confided in Spencer that he missed Danny terribly. Although he was sure that Spencer was merely a pawn in the captor’s game of psychological manipulation, Alex longed for someone with whom to share his thoughts. And Spencer fit perfectly. He hoped Spencer wouldn’t get in trouble for passing tidbits of news from the outside world to Alex. Nor for sneaking an extra packet of sugar into the box that contained his breakfast. The other guards were not nearly so amusing or accommodating.

Alex stretched his arms overhead and listened to the vertebrae of his back as they cracked.

Three days had passed since they stopped showing Alex a video feed of MI6’s Quartermaster. Alex couldn’t guess what the sudden lack of a video feed meant. Was Q injured, or perhaps… dead? There was no telling what his captors were capable of, and Alex wasn’t going to assume that they were all as kind as Spencer. The men who seemed to be in charge claimed to employ Q, but Alex staunchly refused to believe them. It was simply impossible. He paid no attention to their lies and refused to cooperate with their plans to mine his brain for the details about the truth algorithms that had landed him in America after nearly suffocating in a wooden trunk. He wouldn’t give them any information, no matter what they suggested about Q and no matter what torture they might threaten him with.

Someday, Alex hoped to be free, but until then, his captors would continue to think of inventive ways to get Alex to comply with their demands. It was a small consolation that they didn’t resort to physical torture… yet. And Alex was able to withstand the emotional blackmail thus far. Alex kept his most vital knowledge close to his chest, only doling out small bits of information that intrigued his captors enough to keep him alive and in good health. Now, it seemed that their ploy to use Q had obviously failed or backfired. This was worrisome to Alex.

Q was the brilliant head of MI6’s Research and Development branch. He was responsible for outfitting the agents in the double-oh program with the latest in technological warfare. Rumour had it that Q was into biometrics as well. He had invented a sort of truth serum of his own. The Smart Blood program could track an operative’s whereabouts no matter where on earth they roamed. Alex felt confident that Q was responsible for the top-notch development taking place in Q-Branch, a far cry from the exploding pens that Major Boothroyd had developed.

It was rumoured that Q had been doing most of Boothroyd’s work for him during the years before the Silva incident. No, Q wouldn’t have sold out to the Americans. He was as loyal as any MI6 agent, maybe more so since his promotion to department head after the bombing of MI6 headquarters that killed Boothroyd and blew half of the SIS building into the Thames.

Alex had met Q at a cyber-tech conference two years ago in Washington DC. Alex smiled at the memory of when they were both young untested employees of England’s most covert governmental departments. Q was as intelligent as he was handsome. Now, his tousled hair and deep green eyes reminded Alex of Danny. If Alex knew then, what he knew now about human relations, he might have dared to flirt with Q during the conference. He may have even asked Q to take him to bed. Alex blushed at the thought of it, quickly tucking away the fantasy for some other time. He supposed he had a _type_ of man to whom he was attracted. Slim, dark messy-haired, quick-witted and confident with a friendly caress. A smooth chest and a thick cock. Alex bit his lip to avoid smiling. He blamed Danny for perverting his thoughts.

To act on such thoughts two years ago would have been impossible. Alex had been hurt before when he tried to apply what he knew of courting to a live human. He knew enough to try only once before giving up entirely.

There was a boy in sixth form… Martin. Alex was fascinated by him. Tall and lean, the same wild hair, although it was frowned upon in the posh day school where Martin and Alex attended advanced classes. When Martin struggled with a problem he wanted to solve for Professor Caswell’s class, Alex had the answer. Alex struggled mightily with himself over what to do. He could keep the information to himself or he could bravely suggest his solution to Martin. He wouldn’t take credit himself, but he hoped it would endear him to Martin. He took a chance and approached Martin with his suggestion.

It didn’t work.

“I give zero shits about what Professor Caswell thinks about my methodology,” Martin said.

Alex was taken aback by Martin’s language. He expected to be praised by Martin for his suggestion, but Martin’s reaction was completely unexpected.

Alex girded himself with what little defences he could muster.

Martin didn’t stop his barrage of criticism.

“Also, the suggestion you made could have been deducted by any halfwit in Caswell’s class. They could have come up with that solution after about ten seconds of critical thinking, which, if they were in Caswell’s class in the first place, they would likely be capable of doing,” Martin seemed infuriated, when Alex was only trying to help.

“It’s a sloppy solution. It’s not that it’s wrong, or unworkable. It’s that the answer required no thought. I detest it when people mindlessly suggest answers and spread their information without thinking through consequences of events and adding their thoughts about them. You are wrong and I could write a fifty page dissertation on exactly why you’re wrong. If you’re wondering why I’m not considering your suggestion, it’s because I’ve never considered any suggestion you’ve made to me, nor would I do so in the future.”

Alex tried to comprehend what Martin was saying. Martin thought Alex’s solution was unworthy of his consideration. As if that weren’t bad enough, Martin expressed that he thought Alex was unworthy of his time and his companionship.

Alex was devastated. He never sought a personal relationship with anyone again, until Danny worked his way into his heart. 

Alex had spent the previous week gazing at Q through the monitor in his cell. But now Q was gone. It would only be a matter of time before his captors went after Danny. Alex blinked back tears, reminding himself that he must remain strong for Danny’s sake. Danny was still in London, alive at least, Alex was sure of it.

A knock on the door signalled a visitor. Alex straightened up in his chair when Spencer entered the room with the cardboard box containing his breakfast.

~

Four men living together? The thought of it made Barbara blush. She pushed the imagined vision of them cavorting out of her mind. Well, mostly. Many years had passed since the four first fell in together. It all began when Frances Turner showed up in London. Frances was old. Not the kind of woman who had retired from an elite position, but _old_ like she had once hoped to have an elite position before she fucked something up and the establishment sent her on her way. In those early days, Barbara couldn’t tell if Frances was more upset by the death of her son or by the notion that she had failed at the art of espionage.

The spy game is a fine art. Its players must be political, empathetic, and ruthless—all in the span of a nanosecond. It’s not for everyone. To say that Barbara was a bit of an anomaly would be an understatement indeed.

Anyway, Frances turned up in London, keen to get the MI6 staff to help her. Of course, they were Mallory’s staff then, but the poor sod wasn’t cut out to be the head of MI6. He lasted less than a few years before the alcohol got him. It was a shame. The last time anyone heard from him, he was joining an expedition of trekkers as they explored the west coast of Ireland. No one ever thought he’d go back to that country after all he had been through during The Troubles, but impressions change when you add enough alcohol to the inevitability of time. Besides, he looked a bit too much like Lord Voldemort to be much of a hit with the ladies, so he was best off spending some time getting back to nature where he didn’t have to worry about horcruxes and that damned Potter kid… oh, wait… wrong novel.

Frances appeared one day in a London restaurant. Le Papillon, which was owned by Ingmar Mistral, the French restauranteur. Danny Holt was nowhere to be seen, but just as well. He would have stuck out like a sore thumb among the MI6 lunch crowd, even though his recent inheritance had enabled him to afford new clothes, a new vehicle, fancy cigarettes, and a whole new life minus one Alex, or Alastair- depending who you asked, Turner.

~

In the restaurant, Frances looked at her watch. At ten minutes past one, the MI6 lunch ladies were late. Later than expected, she reminded herself. She ordered another pot of tea when Barbara approached her table. She folded her hands atop the white linen tablecloth. Le Papillon was not the type of place she usually took Danny for lunch. He was more of a Subway fan. She had left him behind at the house today, intentionally. There was no need to alarm the women of MI6 with his presence. If anything, he’d be a distraction. He was young, intelligent, good looking, despite the lines around his eyes that showed he hadn’t been sleeping well. Of course, it didn’t matter worth a damn what he looked like to the women, he was gay as tap-dancing flamingo.

Ever since he and Frances arrived back in London, Danny seemed to lose his spirit. He’d mope around his newly-acquired house for hours. Francis suspected he indulged in a daily crying session in the loo. For all his intuition, he had a hard time putting aside his grief for Alex so they could get to work unravelling the mystery of his death and the algorithm he developed. Frances huffed out a breath of indignation. If anyone should have been entitled to tears over Alex’s death, it was her. All those years of training him, conditioning him to cope with the rigors of a life inside of his keeper’s suffocating walls, for nothing. She was convinced that she suffered from the loss worse than his lover, who only missed his cock up his arse.

Barbara deposited the pot of tea on Frances’ table.

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” she asked.

“This is fine,” Frances said not wanting to be distracted by her interruption.

Frances looked at her watch. She’d wait another half hour. Things could get busy at MI6, Frances knew all too well. There was no telling when a world-wide crisis could thwart their attempts to have an organized lunch schedule. Between Brexit and the Trump presidency, the world’s current events tended to interfere with the British decorum and punctuality.

Frances poured the cream into her tea. She heard R’s laugh moments before she saw the woman. The little dyke followed the hostess into the dining room. Behind her, Eve trotted along in her stilettos.

“Barbara will be your server,” the hostess said as she handed a menu to each woman.

“Can I start anyone with a drink?” Barbara asked.

Fortunately for Frances, the pair was seated at the table beside her. She had been studying their lunch patterns for weeks in order to learn when the women might be available. Frances’ years at MI5 were not wasted. She knew how women, like R and Eve, behaved. She simply needed to apply the template of behaviour to them, so she could discern when to make contact. She sipped her tea and pretended to avoid eye contact with her neighbouring table. She’d wait until they ordered lunch before taking action. She had plenty of time. Danny would be beside himself if she came back to the house without any useful information, so she watched and listened, waiting for her opportunity.

“Tea for me,” Eve said, sliding into her chair. She set her Prada bag on the edge of the table.

“Water, please,” R said.

“Still or sparkling?” Barbara asked.

“Still,” R said, wrinkling her nose.

Barbara left the women to their menus and said, “I’ll bring your drinks while you decide.”

“Thank you,” Eve said.

“I already know what I’m having,” R said. She dropped the menu on the table and reached into her messenger bag.

“I always get a salad,” Eve said, “but I may try something different today.”

“Who are you kidding?” R asked. She pulled a tablet out of the messenger bag and swiped a pattern of a password with a stubby finger.

“You’re right,” Eve said, closing her menu. She took her mobile from her purse and checked her email while R scrolled through her tablet.

“Here we are,” Barbara said, returning to the table with the beverages.

“Mallory’s been in such a foul mood today, I should order a whisky for lunch… but I’ll have Cobb Salad,” Eve said.

Frances’ ears perked up at the mention of Mallory, the new head of MI6. It was unfortunate what happened to the old woman who used to head things up. Frances had read her obituary with interest. Frances had met that M on a few occasions before she and her husband were banished from the hallowed halls of the SIS building at Vauxhall Cross.

Nowadays, Frances wouldn’t dare poke her nose into MI6 business if there was a chance she’d be recognized. The years that had passed while she trained Alex had provided her with an opportunity to build her disguise. She bided her time. But now she found herself ready to engage with the old enemy in order to get information. Funny how the loss of her brainchild changed her level of enthusiasm, so she now embraced the opportunity to work with her tormentors.

“Very good,” Barbara said before gesturing toward R, “and for you?”

“Turkey club,” R responded.

“Chips or crisps?”

“Crisps,” R said without looking up from her tablet.

Eve fixed her tea, adding sugar and cream.

Frances sipped her own tea, planning to interrupt the women when they couldn’t escape. She waited for the meals to be served.

The minutes ticked off on the grandfather clock that Ingmar kept in Le Papillon for posterity. The relic had survived the bombing of WWII, so it had its charm. It looked like it belonged in the house Danny inherited from Scottie, truth be told.

Although Frances had never met Scottie, she got a glimpse of what he’d left behind when he was found hanging from a tree in Hampstead Heath. It was a shame that Danny missed him so terribly, second only to Alex. And there was the matter of the small fortune he had left Danny. It was nothing to sneeze at when your only source of income came from a part-time stint in a warehouse, scanning UPC codes with a laser tracker all day.

At last, Barbara delivered the meals to the MI6 ladies’ table. Frances huffed out her annoyance. How long did it take to make a sandwich and chop up some vegetables anyway?

With a captive audience, Frances made her move. She dropped her napkin from her lap onto the table. But before she could say a word, the hostess led a whirlwind of a woman into the room.

Madeleine flowed into the dining area like a fine Chardonnay poured into an elegant glass. So slim that she verged on anorexia, Madeleine cheeks glowed with uncharacteristically good health. Dressed impeccably in a smart white pantsuit, a cornflower blue cape draped around her shoulders. Designer, no doubt. And how she could walk in those Jimmy Choos like she owned the place, Frances would never know.

She certainly didn’t look like someone who had recently broken up with her boyfriend. There was no sign of grief. No reddened eyes or ragged nails. No, Madeleine was in perfect control over her appearance and her image. Unfortunately, for Frances, Madeleine took control of the MI6 table.

Frances clenched her linen napkin in an angry fist.

“Eve?” Madeleine asked. “Is that you?”

Eve looked up from her greens. “Madeleine? It’s been too long.” She set down her fork and stood to greet her old friend.

Well, ‘friend’ might be putting it the wrong way. You see, Eve had a permanent crush on Bond, James Double-oh Seven, Bond. She had once chased him all over Turkey on the premise of doing field work. True to form, Eve wasn’t cut out for the field. In fact, she shot Bond, who the fell off a train and was presumed dead for three months. Of course, there’s only so much alcohol in the Greek Islands and after a while Bond’s island began to run dry. When he heard that MI6 HQ had suffered an explosion, he resurrected himself back into service.

So, where does Madeleine fit in all this? Madeleine was the femme fatale Bond chose over Eve.

It was a bitter pill for Eve to swallow, but heck, in those days, Bond even chose Madeleine over Q, despite his intelligence and his willingness to sacrifice his career for Bond at the first whisper of a request for assistance. So, it was reasonable for Eve to understand how tough the competition was. Madeleine was all that and a bag of crisps.

Until she wasn’t.

After a couple months, she had enough of Bond’s shit, packed up her things and took a job as a psychiatrist in Paris. Certainly, Eve thought she had seen the last of her.

“Eve, it’s so good to see you,” Madeleine said, switching her handbag into her left hand so she could greet Eve with a proper handshake.

Frances snorted and sat back in her seat.

“You remember Rachel?” Eve said, using R’s code name for times when Q’s second in command was in civilian territory.

“Yes, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Madeleine said. “I remember James describing some of the brilliant devices your department manufactured for him while he was doing field work.”

“Rachel keeps Mr. Bond alive on most days. I’m sorry to hear that you two had a falling out,” Eve said.

“Well, you know how these things happen,” Madeleine said with a half shrug. “Life goes on.”

“Pardon me,” Barbara asked as she passed between Madeleine and the spare chair at Frances’ table.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Madeleine said. “I was following the hostess to a table.”

“Are you alone?” R asked. “You’re welcome to join us. We just got our food a minute ago.”

“I couldn’t possibly interrupt,” Madeleine said with a wave of her hand.

“Not at all,” Eve said. She caught the server’s eye and pointed to an empty seat at their table and said, “There will be three for lunch.”

“Have a seat, Madeleine,” R said, still holding a half of a sandwich in one hand and scrolling through email on her tablet with the other.” It was no wonder that Q promoted her to R, considering her talent for multi-tasking.

Madeleine hesitated, but only slightly. In less time than it took for Frances to bite back the anger at having her plan thwarted, Madeleine was sitting at the table perusing the menu.

“Something to drink?” Barbara asked.

“I won’t make my friends wait,” Madeleine said as she unbuttoned her cloak. “I’ll have sparkling water and the Caprese salad with goat cheese.”

“Very good,” Barbara said, taking the menu from Madeleine.

When Barbara vanished from sight, Eve leaned forward and said, “So, a little birdie told me that you were starting a new practice in Paris.”

Madeleine only looked uncomfortable for a second. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled at her plate. “James,” she said finally, facing Eve. “We don’t have to pretend that he hasn’t been talking about our breakup.”

“He’s usually not one for over-sharing, but….” R said, looking up from her tablet.

“No, I don’t suppose he would be,” Madeleine said with a smile.

“I’m surprised you put up with him for as long as you did,” Eve said. “A girl deserves credit for that. Not even Q can stand to be around him for much longer than a night on comms.”

“There’s a big difference between a night on comms and the 24/7 commitment of a relationship,” R said. She then turned to Madeleine and added, “No offense.”

“None taken,” Madeleine said.

Barbara arrived with a bottle of San Pellegrino for Madeleine.

Madeleine nodded her thanks. “So, yes, I’m off to Paris,” she said.

“Paris is so much fun,” Eve said.

Frances had lost her last bit of patience. She wished that Madeleine hadn’t joined them. There had to be a way to get rid of her. An emergency phone call? Spilling wine all over her white wool pantsuit? There had to be some way.

“It presents a new opportunity for me,” Madeleine said. “I’ll be setting up my own practice. I hope to have a much bigger clientele than I did in Austria.”

“I like Austria better than Paris,” R said, downing her water in large gulps. “The snowboarding is better.”

“Austria has both good and bad memories for me,” Madeleine said. “I was there when I learned that my father had died.”

“I’m so sorry,” R said.

Madeleine shook her head.

“It was there that I met James,” Madeleine said. “He and my father were once on opposite sides of the same business.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Eve said.

“I like to think that in the end, he redeemed himself,” Madeleine said. “He did what was best.”

Just then, Barbara arrived with Madeleine’s Caprese salad.

“Thank you,” Madeleine said. “This looks delicious.”

As Madeleine dug into her salad, Frances had an idea. If Madeleine’s father was a member of SPECTRE, he had connections deep within organized crime. She might be more valuable to Frances than the MI6 bunch. Perhaps Madeleine maintained some of the connections her father had with SPECTRE. Someone who could help Frances and Danny learn what became of Alex’s research. And what became of Alex. Certainly, they had Alex or his body stashed somewhere. They didn’t expect the Turners to believe that the cadaver they received from the coroner’s office was truly their son. All the coroner’s paperwork indicated that the DNA belonged to Alex, but that information could be faked. What if Alex were still alive? Frances hated to think of Alex being murdered, but after the project overseers injected her with fentanyl, she couldn’t remember a thing that happened the night Alex disappeared. What if Danny’s intuition was correct and he was languishing somewhere waiting to be rescued? Alex’s own mother sensed that Alex was dead, but she was too stupid to be convinced by logic and a faked medical examiner’s report.

“If I may interrupt,” Frances said. “I overheard you speaking and I have a problem that I think you may be able to help me with.”

Frances’ natural restraint came through in her speech. The lie that she _simply overheard_ them went undetected. She had sat in the restaurant each day from noon until tea time, hoping that the women would arrive. And now, she finally had her chance. She hadn’t planned on the addition of Madeleine, but perhaps this was some good fortune that smiled upon her.

Frances stood up at her table.

Eve put down her fork. “Um… do I know you?”

“No,” Frances said, keeping her cool demeanour. “Not socially, although in some ways we do know each other. We are all affected by the same forces that tug on our humanity.”

“You do look somewhat familiar,” R said, holding up her tablet to take a photo of Frances.

“If you are a friend of these women, I have no objection if you want to sit with us,” Madeleine said.

Frances took a step closer to the table. “I have questions about my son,” she said. “Not that I would expect women of your age to know anything of what it’s like to be a mother—”

“Wait a minute, lady,” Eve said. “There’s no need to be so rude.”

“I’m sorry,” Frances said, another lie. She couldn’t help it if these plebes didn’t acknowledge her with the respect she deserved. “My son is missing. I was told he is dead, a victim of foul play of the most insidious form, but we are inclined to believe otherwise—”

“Frances Turner,” R said. “Your husband was a chief MI6 operative back in the 1980s. When he promoted his cronies into top level positions, the PM’s office caught on. He was dragged over the coals and you and he were exiled so the British equivalent of Siberia.”

Eve raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, that’s putting it kindly,” Frances said. She knew R had more brains than anyone else at the MI6 lunch table, she just hadn’t expected her to use Google so effectively.

“Why would you think we’d be able to help you with anything?” Eve asked.

“She wants information about her son,” R said.

“What has happened to your son?” Madeleine asked, all too aware of the workings of MI6. Although her father had used his connections in SPECTRE to swindle millions of pounds from the government, he tried to keep his daughter in the dark. The closest she came to the world of espionage was through her short term on-again off-again relationship with one double-oh, James Bond.

“Her son died in a sex game gone wrong,” R said. She elbowed Eve and added, “You remember reading about that in The Daily Mail, don’t you?”

Frances took this opportunity to pull out a chair and take a place at the table. “He was kidnapped and coerced into giving up his research,” Frances said. “When he refused, he was quite possibly killed. We had a funeral.” She folded her hands in front of her, resting them on the linen tablecloth.

“But who would kill him?” Madeleine asked.

“MI5,” Frances said resolutely.

“I’m so sorry,” Madeleine said, the only woman bold enough to first break the silence.  
The sound of tinkling glasses and the scrape of forks against china were the only sounds that punctuated the quiet of Le Papillon.

“The thing is,” Frances said, “We don’t believe he’s dead. Danny has received a cryptic message.”

“Stop speaking in circles, woman,” Eve said. “Who is _Danny_?

“Daniel Holt,” R said, glancing at her tablet. “The sex partner who spilled the beans to the media.”

A knowing sigh made its way around the table.

“Frances, if you don’t mind me saying, your friend Danny should have kept quiet and come to us first,” R said. “What kind of idiot doesn’t know that the press will twist any bit of information they’re given.”

“Is Danny stupid?” Eve asked.

Frances never felt the need to defend Danny. The boy had a good head on his shoulders. And although he was a bit of an oaf, he had something that most other people wouldn’t view as an asset. In the world of espionage, Danny’s intuitiveness combined with his romantic liaison with Alex was strong enough to spur his deductions onward. On the drive from her place of exile in the northern fringe of England to London, Danny shared with Frances the steps he had taken to solve the riddle of the cypher. He was certain Alex had left the cylinder for him to find. But what then? Attempts to share Alex’s research with the world in hopes of finding his killers were fruitless.

But now, Danny had received another cryptic message.

“No he’s not stupid,” Frances said. In fact, he’s brilliant when it comes to intuition. He believes Alex is alive, and I believe him.”

“Alex isn’t your son,” R said.

“How?” Frances looked to Eve, then to Madeleine. “How can she know that?”

R cracked her knuckles. “We’re MI6. You know we’re MI6, right? That’s why you’ve been waiting here every day, trying to catch us during our lunch break.”

Frances bit her lip.

“I will say her plan did work, if that’s the case,” Madeleine said to R. “But what can these women possibly do to help you?”

Frances took a deep breath. “I was promised that if I convinced Alex to give up his research, his captors would move him to America,” Frances said.

“Have they ever given you a reason to believe them?” Eve asked. “I mean, we work side by side with people like that every day. We’re part of the government.”

Frances looked Eve directly in the eyes. “I have to believe. He’s my son.”

“Not so fast,” R said.

“What now? Madeleine asked.

R tapped her finger against the display on her tablet. “Alex wasn’t your son.”

Frances swallowed and tried to keep her stern attitude. Was there nothing MI6 didn’t know about her?

~


	3. Chapter 3

Danny stared at the cardboard box. He held it cautiously in two outstretched hands as if it were a bomb that would explode any minute from now, leaving the foyer in shambles.

The day had begun like normal—or like what had become the new normal of late. He tossed and turned in the king-sized bed, cursing the luxurious sheets that should have lulled him back to sleep. He woke for the last time at 5:00 AM, unable to shake the memories of Alex that danced through his head. In his dreams, Alex cried out, “His name is Danny…” over and over again, until Danny woke in a pool of sweat.

Danny dressed quickly and descended to the kitchen. He set the kettle to boil and went to the front door to see if the newspaper had arrived yet. Scottie still got the Times delivered daily. Danny didn’t have the heart to cancel the subscription, although Scottie would never see the paper again.

He padded down the carpeted hallway, careful to avoid waking Frances. The woman slept lightly now that she had returned to London to help Danny find out who was behind Alex’s murder in hopes of bringing them to justice. Danny was naturally wary. Despite the security system Danny had installed at Scottie’s, trouble had a way of finding Danny. He couldn’t expect a few electronic alarms to keep the forces of whole governments at bay.

The scent of fresh rain wafted into the entryway of Scottie’s house as a morning storm brewed over Hampstead Heath. At his feet lay the Sunday Times and something peculiar beside it, waiting on the front steps.

A white cardboard box caught Danny’s attention. A mailing label had been affixed to the box, but Danny didn’t recognize the handwriting. The package was addressed to Danny. The address was Scottie’s. Funny, Danny had never come to think of this as _his_ house, no matter that he had moved all of his belongings there. It would never be _Danny’s_ house, although Scottie had willed it to him six months earlier when he took his own life. God, how Danny missed him now. While the rain fell, Danny turned the box upside down and ran his fingers over the circles that had been etched into the cardboard.

Danny clutched the doorframe with one hand when he realized what he held. Taking a deep breath, he closed the door and brought the box into the study.

Frances, he had to wake Frances, but only if he was sure about what he discovered.

Frances always called Scottie’s house _Danny’s house,_ as if property ownership somehow elevated Danny in Frances’ eyes. Scottie’s house paled in comparison to Frances’ posh castle where she spent her exile. She had spent a fortune in remodelling the old place. Danny could care less if he ever travelled back there again. The place was cold and dreary enough before the fire had laid it to ruin. It was a small comfort that Alex’s mother survived the conflagration. She had already been punished so much that death might have been a blessing. She’d never know the loving embrace of her only son, although she would live out the remainder of her days in a cottage that Frances owned.

Danny set the box on his desk. The newspaper articles he had clipped over the past months fluttered in the breeze created when the box fell to the desktop. He grabbed a letter opener and worked at the seam, where tape held the box shut. When, at last he opened the box, it was empty, as he suspected it would be when he felt the weight of it, lights as a feather. Only a few crumbs from toast and a darkened spot where butter had once landed in a glob on the white cardboard remained. But it wasn’t the contents of the box that drew Danny’s attention. The bottom of the box was far more fascinating.

Danny touched the indentations on the box’s bottom. He shook with the emotion of it all, tears welling in his eyes. He ran the back of his hand across his nostrils, stopping the flow of snot.

The six circles, the single line, was it only his imagination?

He traced each circle made by something not quite sharp enough to cut. Perhaps the circles were made by a fingernail, or a plastic knife—the kind that one would use only once before disposing of it. The number wasn’t carved by a pen or pencil that could have clearly written the numeral Danny saw on the box.

0000001

Could Alex be alive?

Danny sunk to the floor and drew his knees up to his chest.

“How is this even possible?” he sobbed.

The rain fell across Hampstead Heath, bringing the promise of renewal with it.

In the days that followed, he relied on Frances and the MI6 connections she purported to have. He hoped she would convince them to help her. He hoped that somehow, through it all, they would find Alex alive.

The mere thought of it made Danny giddy.

The notion of a living Alex kept Danny’s mind racing and prevented him from sleeping. The most pleasant thoughts seeped into his dreams. If Alex were alive, Danny hoped Alex was pining for him, but knowing Alex and his distrust of romance, Danny would settle for just a few moments when he held Alex’s attention. Still, he hoped Alex missed him. He wished that he could be assured that Alex would think of him from time to time. He was his soulmate, after all. Even Alex might believe that now, if they were somehow reunited.

Danny remembered the long walks they would take during their eight-month courtship. Alex was always fond of the beach. Maybe he escaped his captors are really was lounging on a beach somewhere where he couldn’t divulge his whereabouts to Danny. They had to find him. They had to leave now for America.

Frances told Danny that he was being ridiculous. “No one really thinks Alex was whisked off to America. No more than a dying man would think of a lover when his life flashed before his eyes just before the moment of his death,” she assured him.

But Alex may have been taken to America. Danny could feel it. He could believe it as surely as he knew Alex thought of him at the moment of his certain death.

Alex was alive. He had to be.

~

Barbara had listened, as unobtrusively as she could, to the conversation between Eve and her colleagues. The story of Alex’s death was awful. She had stayed close to their table, refilling their water glasses and making sure the drinks flowed. She remembered reading about Alex’s death in the paper months earlier. Like anyone who consumed the steady stream of trashy media, Barbara believed that Alex died is some weird sex game gone wrong. Now, it sounded like poor Alex had been hung out to dry by the very organization that he worked for—MI5.

All the talk of international government organizations made Barbara’s head spin. Whatever happened to the quest for world peace?

Barbara thought she would make a good negotiator, if the opportunity ever came about. She felt akin to Frances in that way. Her mind worked differently than most girls who only cared about the latest Wonder Woman film or who Harry Styles was dating. She analysed things through a different lens.

Eve conveyed that Frances hoped that the MI6 team could find out what the investigators had done with Alex. Was he really dead? Frances thought he was, but what if instead, he was being held against his will? What if he was being tortured for information? Frances knew more about the intricacies of torture and the methods the government used to control the sharing of information than most people. So if Frances though Alex was dead, Barbara was inclined to believe her.

Torture fascinated Barbara. In light of the discussion that took place in Le Papillon today, she wished she knew more about it. Perhaps she could investigate it more in her free time. As it was, she usually stayed up until midnight, reading books in her tiny flat. She had no friends who would call her to go out for a night of socializing. No man or woman served as her sounding board to discuss any of the bits of gossip she learned while waiting on tables. Barbara liked it that way. She was a far better companion to herself than and Sixth Form friend or chatty co-worker.

She sympathized with Danny, who had lost his true love. The way Frances described his anguish touched Barbara’s heart. 

Apparently, Danny wanted to believe that Alex was lounging on a beach somewhere on the south coast of Florida—and that this cardboard box with the food stains was something that a take-away place would use to deliver a meal.

Barbara shuddered at the thought of a box. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to be stuffed into a box and left for dead. The Daily Mail said that a heat lamp was turned on beside the wooden trunk in which Turner was discovered. Maybe Turner liked the heat? A beach would be the perfect place to get away from it all, despite what Frances had told the ladies from MI6. Maybe Alex arranged his own escape to trick Frances. Maybe Alex was sick of being stuck in a relationship with Danny, who was a bit of an oaf, despite his extraordinary level of perception and intuition.

According to Danny, the box smelled faintly of the ocean, but what did Danny know about the smell of the ocean and the kind of food someone would order on the shore of an American beach? Anything from fried clams to a hot buttered lobster roll could have left those stains on the white cardboard. The crumbs could have been left by anything from a piece of toast to a baked stuffed shrimp that lost a dollop of its stuffing. 

Perhaps Danny was right. Perhaps Alex lounged on a New England beach. It made sense to Barbara that Alex could have left old England for New England. The only issue was that of the beach, where water temperatures averaged only slightly above freezing in the cold months that would soon be upon them.

Barbara shivered and refilled her pitcher with more ice.

~ 

Predictably, the MI6 crowd sometimes came into Le Papillon when it wasn’t very busy, like on a Wednesday night after they got out of work. The four them would hog a table until Ingmar’s manager wanted to close down for the night. Barbara would never get home in time to read her beloved books, or to write to her pen pal who she met through a “write to a prisoner” scheme, or scroll through the pictures of men on OK Cupid. Not that she held onto any hope that she would someday find a spouse, but she hated the customers who made her work late while they occupied a table that could have turned over three times, if not for their banter.

Tonight, Eve showed up first to request a table.

“Three,” Eve said. “No, make that four. Definitely, four.”

“Sounds like a definite maybe,” Maxine, the hostess said as she led Eve to a table in Barbara’s section. “A table for four.”

“Can I get you a drink to start?” Barbara asked.

“I have more people coming,” Eve said. “I should wait for them.”

“Very well,” Barbara said.

“On second thought,” Eve held her hand out to Barbara. “I’ll have a whisky sour.”

Barbara went to the bar and put in Eve’s drink order. Only three of the Le Papillon tables were filled with diners when Eve arrived. The low hum of conversation wafted across linen tablecloths. The clink of cutlery and ice against glassware tinkled softly. By the time Barbara brought the drink back to Eve, a trio of men had arrived at her table. Barbara recognized each of them. One thing about being so close to Vauxhall Cross was that an endless stream of diners from the Secret Intelligence Service seemed to find their way into Le Papillon. The diners provided a good income for Barbara, who otherwise would have to move back with the Bradfords. It served her well to eschew complaining about the MI6 table occupants too much.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” Barbara asked, setting the whiskey sour glass in front of Eve.

“I’ll have a vodka martini,” the handsome blond said.

Barbara had seen the well-dressed man in the restaurant many times before. Bond, James Bond. He did some sort of undercover work for MI6. Impeccable tailoring, freshly polished shoes. His pocket square always matched his tie. His face looked worn, like he had spent too many days in the sun. Sometimes, there was a scratch across his jaw, sometimes a bruise or a black eye. Sometimes his skin bore a railroad track of tiny stitches, but his blue eyes were so pleasant to look upon, she forgot about the trauma that had hit his face.

“Shaken, not stirred,” he added after Barbara had turned her attention to the balding man.

Bill Tanner popped into Le Papillon at least once per week. He didn’t visit for lunch, instead he arrived right before the dinner rush. His wife had her hands full with the twins at home, so the least Tanner could do was spare her the task of cooking a meal one night per week. He always got a double order of pasta with whatever he ordered. Coq au vin with a double order of risotto. Sea scallops and prawns with a double order of linguini. Chicken cordon bleu with a double order of pilaf. And after much false deliberation, he always ordered a chocolatey dessert. It was a wonder he and his wife weren’t diabetic.

“I’ll have an Amaretto on the rocks,” Tanner said.

“And for you?” Barbara asked the sylph-like creature who didn’t take his eye off the laptop screen.

“A pot of Earl Grey,” Q replied.

He was apparently the only member of the MI6 crowd who didn’t worry about caffeine keeping him up at night. This kid looked no older than Barbara. Nerdy glasses, cardigan jumpers, his nose always in his laptop. Today, he wore a bright neon green cast on his left wrist. Funny, this fellow never seemed to have any sort of injury before, unless a papercut warranted medical attention. He looked as if he subsisted entirely on tea. It was true, Barbara had never seen him in Le Papillon for a meal. He carried his stainless steel thermos with him wherever he went, often re-filling it at the restaurant before he headed back to his work. His thick gorgeous hair was his best feature. Barbara often imagined what it would feel like to run her hands through it. Although she had no man of her own, sometimes she became distracted by the diners at Le Papillon. With clientele like Q, who could blame her?

Barbara left to get the drink orders.

“What gives, Moneypenny?” Tanner asked. “Why have you called us here? And on a weekday?”

“And dragged us away from our work?” Q asked, although he hadn’t been dragged away, exactly. There were apparently no hot missions that needed comm coverage tonight.

“It would make sense if it were on the weekend,” Bond said, straightening the cuff of his shirt. “Drinking with the work mates is a Friday evening tradition.”

“Drinking on any day is traditional for you, I thought,” Q said. “Too bad it’s only Wednesday for the rest of us.”

Eve was just about to speak when Barbara arrived. She set Q’s teapot in front of him. With impatient hands, Tanner reached for his Amaretto before Barbara could put down a cocktail napkin. She gave Bond’s martini one extra shake before pouring it into the martini glass.

“And will you be ordering dinner tonight?” Barbara asked.

“I’m fine,” Q said, taking his mobile from his pocket. “I’m heading back to the office afterwards.”

“Nothing right now,” Eve said.

“I might order something before I leave,” Tanner said. “Trixie loves the whipped potatoes from here.”

“I’d like an order of escargot with the garlic sauce,” Bond said. He shrugged when all eyes turned to him.

Q wrinkled his nose.

“Very good, sir,” Barbara said. “I will put your order in immediately.”

Le Papillon was quiet for a Wednesday evening. Although the weeknights sometimes brought people who were on holiday and looking for a dining establishment that was off the beaten path. Barbara tried to tamp down the feelings of annoyance that the MI6 crew were likely to take up the table for the next few hours, despite their not ordering dinner. She knew from past experience that Bond was a good tipper, at least, so she did her best to accommodate them.

“So, why are we here?” Q asked, folding his hands in front of him, as best he could with the cumbersome cast. 

“I called you here tonight because at lunch today, I learned some information that you might find intriguing,” Eve said.

“Intriguing in a good way or a bad way?” Tanner asked. He looked around the room as if he wanted to flag Barbara down to request a side order of crisps.

“Intriguing in an intriguing way,” Eve said.

“Darling, get on with it,” Bond said.

“At lunch today, we were approached by—”

“We?” Q chirped in, looking up from his mobile.

“R and me,” Eve said.

“Remind me to dock R’s pay,” Q said.

“I’ll do no such thing. Oh, and we were joined by your ex,” Eve added, thumping Bond on the arm.

“Fantastic,” Bond said, rolling his eyes.

“I thought she moved to Paris,” Tanner said.

“She leaves next Sunday,” Bond said.

Q looked at Bond, annoyed.

“And when we were here, learning all about Bond and Madeleine’s breakup,” Eve continued, “we were joined by one Frances Turner.”

“That name sounds familiar,” Bond said.

“I don’t know any Frances Turner,” Tanner said. “Should I?”

“What about Alex Turner?” Eve asked.

“He’s the bloke whose remains were found locked in a trunk in an attic,” Q said knowingly.

Eve marvelled at how similar R and Q were. Q was just like R, without the need for a tablet and a wifi connection.

“Was there some reason you remembered that, Q?” Eve asked.

Q looked at his mobile again. He seemed to take an unnecessary amount of time to think about his words.

“He was gay,” Q said. “His partner gave an interview to a tell-all rag after Alex’s death.”

“The death was under mysterious circumstances,” Tanner said.

“If you call a sex dungeon mysterious,” Bond said with a smirk.

“Your escargot, sir,” Barbara said, setting the plate in front of Bond.

“Thank you,” Bond said, taking his fork in hand. “Now what’s all this with Frances Turner?”

“It turns out, Alex Turner may be alive,” Eve said. “At least his partner thinks so.”

Q had started to pick up his mobile again, but this got his attention.

“How so?” Q asked.

“Wasn’t there a medical examiner’s report?” Tanner asked.

“There was,” Eve said.

“Those can be faked easily,” Bond said between nibbles of escargot.

“And a body?” Tanner reminded them.

“A technicality,” said Eve.

“But why does his partner think he’s alive?” Q asked.

“Danny Holt received a package from the United States,” Eve said.

“And what did this package contain, Miss Moneypenny?” Bond asked.

“Inside the package was nothing,” Eve said.

“Nothing?” Tanner asked.

“Nothing,” Eve said.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Bond said.

“Except,” Eve continued, “on the outside of the package, the number 0000001 was scratched into the cardboard.”

“What on earth does that mean?” Tanner asked.

“Frances is convinced that it’s a message from Alex,” Eve said. She looked from Tanner’s face to Q’s, to Bond’s, hoping that they would have some understanding. It suddenly occurred to her that she needed to give them more key information. When it came to gatherings, Eve was the life of the party, but when it came to telling a joke, she had the horrible habit of forgetting the punch line. This was a case where similarly, she had left out vital information.

“Oh! Oh! That was their code word,” Eve said.

“That’s a number,” Q said. “Not a word.”

“A number that was important to them. Danny was Alex’s number one,” Eve said. “It was like a cute little thing between them.”

“Charming,” Bond said.

“I think it’s romantic,” Eve said.

“Was there a return address on the package?” Q asked.

“I wouldn’t be asking for your help if there was,” Eve said, slumping back in her seat.

“This package… what of it?” Tanner asked. “It doesn’t prove anything. And besides, even if Turner were alive, who could possibly know where to begin to look for him if there was no return address?”

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Eve said. “Frances Turner thinks that agents from MI5 took Turner and relocated him in the U.S.”

Q’s eyes flew open wide. Bond took note, but didn’t mention it. Instead, he questioned Eve further. “Why would she suspect that?”

“Apparently, according to R, she used to work for SIS, back in the 1970s. The woman seems to know what she’s talking about,” Eve said.

“And what do you expect us to do with this information?” Bond asked.

“I haven’t met him, but it seems that his partner, this Danny Holt, thinks that Alex is being held against his will and forced to work for his captors,” Eve said.

“In the U.S.?” Tanner asked. “What country are his captors working for?”

“That’s for you to find out,” Eve said. “That is, if you’re interested.”

“I just love ad hoc missions,” Bond said with a disinterested sigh.

“I’d be willing to investigate it, in light of what happened to me last week,” Q said, waving his cast in the air.

The table at Le Papillion went quiet. It was unlike Q to volunteer his services without Bond intervening and giving him the sad puppy-dog-eyes treatment. Although Q was a cat person at heart, Bond’s pleading had long since proven to be the one force Q could not overcome.

“If Turner is as intelligent as you have been led to believe, the information he has could be at risk of falling into the wrong hands,” Q said.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to get an upper hand on tech developments that might be a risk to Queen and Country,” Bond said.

“So, you’ll help Frances?” Eve asked, enthusiastically.

“I’ll keep M off your backs, if that’s why I was called to this meeting,” Tanner said, still looking longingly at the platters of food that Barbara carried to other tables.

“It’s a deal, then,” Eve said, raising her whisky glass.

“Cheers,” Q said, lifting his teacup to touch it.

Tanner followed with his glass.

Bond ate the last escargot off his fork and downed his martini.

“Spoilsport,” Eve said wistfully.

“I’ve got to get going,” Tanner said, draining his glass. “Oh, miss.”

“Her name is Barbara,” Eve said, rolling her eyes.

“What can I get for you, sir?” Barbara asked.

“Can I get an order of your Chicken Marsala for takeaway?”

“Of course, sir,” Barbara said.

“And go heavy on the penne…. And I’ll take a side order of the German Chocolate cake,” Tanner added.

“I’ll put your order right in,” Barbara said.

“I need to be going too,” Eve said. “Thanks for listening to me. I knew I could count on my friends.”

Ten minutes later, the group had finished their conversations and Eve bid them goodnight. Tanner left with his food order.

Q had put his mobile away, but Bond had asked Barbara to see the menu again.

“I think I’d like to order a dessert,” Bond said.

“As you like,” Barbara said.

“What do you recommend?” Bond asked, turning on the charm as if it were connected to the twinkle in his eyes, glittering under the lights of Le Papillon.

“The apricot cake is wonderful,” Barbara said.

“The apricot cake it is, then,” Bond said.

Barbara collected the menu from him.

“And bring two forks, if you would,” Bond said.

Barbara smiled at Q and said,” Of course.”

Q scowled, undoubtedly uncomfortable with Bond’s dessert antics.

“Really Bond,” Q said, “If you’re trying to get into my trousers, you’ll have to do better than that.”

“Not at all, darling,” Bond said. “I have other ways of tempting you if I wanted to get into your trousers.”

Q picked up his mobile again, ignoring Bond.

“So, tell me, Quartermaster,” Bond said, “what are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Q said.

“Liar,” Bond said.

Q tugged at his dark hair, which stayed where he left it, making it stand out from his head like a new age sculpture.

“I noticed you got interested when Eve mentioned Alex Turner’s research,” Bond said. “Those wheels in your head were turning so quickly, you lost your ability to speak.”

“I can’t fool you,” Q said in a sing-song voice.

“Spy,” Bond said, pointing to his chest. “The powers of observation come with the profession.”

“So what?” Q said.

“You tell me,” Bond said.

Barbara took this moment to bring Bond his dessert. “I hope you both enjoy it,” she said, setting it in front of Bond and placing the two forks beside it.

“It looks delicious,” Bond said. “I’m sure we will.”

“Let me know if I can get either of you anything else,” Barbara said.

“Oh, we will,” Bond said with a wink.

“We’re not going there, Bond.” Q said, although he looked conflicted.

Barbara smiled and turned away. These two made an amusing couple, she thought. Half the time, she couldn’t tell if they were lovers or if they couldn’t stand the sight of each other. She busied herself with diners at another table while she anticipated what would happen next between Bond and Q. But when Barbara next walked by their table, the men were gone.

At least they left Barbara a handful of fifty-pound notes for her trouble.

~


	4. Chapter 4

It didn’t take decades of SIS service for Bond to discern that something was bothering Q. Bond was determined to find out what the Quartermaster had on his mind. He followed him out of the restaurant and stopped beside the Aston Martin DB10 that he had borrowed from MI6 to go out to dinner. He had parked it on the street right in front of Le Papillon, hoping he’d have the opportunity to take Q for a spin. It couldn’t be easy making his way around London with his wrist in a cast. Of course, Q being Q, was too stubborn to use the car service or a pricey taxi for a trip as mundane as that across the bridge to spend a few hours drinking with work mates.

“Come on, Q,” Bond insisted as they stepped onto the street outside Le Papillon. The sky had already turned dark and a cold breeze blew across the Thames. “I’ll give you a lift.”

Q looked affronted. “I’m perfectly capable of walking the distance from Le Papillon back to Six,” he said. He struggled to turn up the collar of the light jacket he wore. He seemed to forget that the cast got in the way of his ordinary activities because he stumbled and nearly fell off the kerb had Bond not caught him by the arm. Fortunately, it was not the arm attached to his broken wrist. In any case, the wrist wasn’t badly broken and only a few more weeks remained until the cast could be removed and Q could be perfectly back to normal. 

“Besides, I don’t like the idea of getting into a car with someone who has been drinking,” Q continued.

“Since when have you become such a git? Bond asked.

“And I like the idea of you driving around in the Aston Martin that I just spent the past six months refurbishing after you decided to take it for a spin in Italy even less.”

“It handles like it’s brand new, if it’s any consolation,” Bond said, leaning against the car. “You’d hardly know that it was salvaged from the Tiber. You really should give it a try. Besides, I only had one martini. I’d offer to let you drive, but with the broken wrist, you’ll probably drive worse than a drunk anyway.”

Q turned in the direction of the Vauxhall Bridge. The cool breeze ruffled his hair. Bond wondered why he hadn’t worn one of those knitted scarf and hat atrocities that he had seen Q wear in Austria. The days weren’t getting any warmer now that winter was on its way. The lights on the bridge illuminated the dark river and cast a glow onto the fog that rose like a spectre against the night sky.

“Did you mean what you said about pursuing the lead on Alex Turner?” Bond asked, trying to persuade Q.

That got Q’s attention. His thoughts seemed to stop in their tracks.

“Get in, and we can discuss it on the way,” Bond said. “It’s not like you to agree to go on a rogue mission and I want to know why you’re interested in the Turner case.”

Q yawned mightily before looking at his feet, caught out by Bond’s observation. 

“Unless you don’t want to share,” Bond said.

“It’s less than a minute by car, Bond,” Q reminded him. “But I’m very tired. I was actually thinking of calling it a night and heading for home.”

Bond saw the opportunity and he seized it. “I could drop you at home. That is, if you have everything you need from your office,” Bond said. “If you want me to swing by Six so you can pick up your things….”

Q bit his lip. He looked like he was actually considering the offer. “We need to talk,” he said, to Bond’s surprise.

Bond hoped to hell that this wasn’t going to be a talk about sexual harassment. He had been overly flirtatious with Q ever since the kidnapping incident. But surely Q’s rebuffs were sufficient enough to satisfy his disdain for Bond’s cheesy one-liners and inappropriate touches. Bond cringed when he thought that Q may have gone to HR with a complaint. In Bond’s line of work, it was always a possibility. Perhaps Q had gotten fed up with Bond’s visits to Q-Branch and his requests for a date.

Bond was careful to hide his surprise. An evening spent with the delightful Quartermaster was his for the taking. If the discussion included a warning to stop flirting with Q in front of his minions, Bond would do what he could. But perhaps the discussion would be about something else? Bond had noticed that Q behaved differently after hearing Eve’s story about meeting the mother of Alex Turner. Perhaps the fact that Turner and this Danny Holt were gay hit a little too close to home for Q. There was no telling what trauma Q had experienced as a young gay boffin. The combination of being kidnapped and learning more about Turner’s death may have taken a toll on his emotions this evening. If that were the case, Bond was ready to do whatever necessary to help.

“You can take me home,” Q said. “I have some things I’d like to get off my chest and it’s best if you hear it from me directly.”

Bond opened the passenger side door of the Aston Martin and let the Quartermaster slip inside.

He got into his seat and buckled in. The refurbished Aston Martin’s engine roared to life and Bond turned onto the streets of London.

Q was quiet as Bond negotiated the traffic. When they turned onto Putney Heath Lane, Q sighed. “I’m not even going to ask how you know where I live.”

“I have my ways,” Bond said. “Besides, I need to know where to send your Christmas card.”

Q shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Bond parked the Aston Martin in front of Q’s terrace house. The number “39” marked the end unit. Bond followed Q through the wrought iron entry gate, taking care to latch it behind him. They climbed the five steps to the front door where Bond waited for Q to neutralize his security system before stepping inside.

Once inside, Q turned on the lights. Bond found himself in the entryway, the scent of bergamot wafted through the air. The home smelled a bit like Q did when he arrived to work in morning. The entry floor was comprised of expensive Italian tiles arranged in an art deco pattern.

Q worked his way out of his jacket and hung it on a coatrack that held some of the other jackets and coats Q had been known to wear. He held out a hand and offered to take Bond’s suit jacket from him, but he apparently had second thoughts as he waved his good hand and said, “Just make yourself at home.”

Bond felt confident that their conversation was not going to be a reprimand for his forward behaviour. Q seemed at ease with Bond, and he showed a new level of trust toward the agent - enough to let him into his own personal space, at least.

Bond tried to decide whether he wanted to keep his jacket on, when a strange thump disturbed him from his reverie.

At the top of the stairway that bordered the entryway, a fluffy white cat made its appearance.

“Ah, you did once mention having two cats to feed,” Bond chuckled. “I see they survived being under Eve’s care for a day.”

“Pampuria,” Q said, apparently that was the cat’s name.

With her tail held high, Pampuria descended the stairs. She sniffed the air, as if something distasteful had caught her attention.

Bond assumed she was curious about him, a visitor invading her private lair. Funny, the cat reminded Bond of Blofeld’s cat – the one who he stroked on his lap as he prepared to bring all manner of evil into Bond’s world.

“You remember her, she’s the one you and Madeleine brought back from Morocco,” Q said.

“That was Madeleine’s doing, not mine,” Bond said, remembering the feline. He hoped that Pampuria had changed her evil ways, but he knew all too well that cats would be cats.

From out of nowhere, a tabby cat appeared and twined around Bond’s ankles.

The cat let out a soft mewl and got onto its hind legs, stretching so its front paws touched Bond’s knee.

“Turing is very friendly,” Q said.

Bond leaned down to scratch the cat’s head between his ears.

“Funny, I never pegged you as an animal lover,” Q said.

Bond straightened up and watched Q’s back as he left the entryway.

“Something to drink?” Q asked.

Bond followed Q into the kitchen. “I doubt you have what I’m looking to be on offer,” he said.

White cabinetry with glass doors displayed Q’s fine china. The light from the streetlamps reflected off stainless steel appliances. Q flipped on the overhead light.

“Don’t be so sure,” Q said, reaching into the cabinet for a shaker.

Bond tried to conceal a grin. He averted his eyes from Q to take a look around the kitchen. There were no dishes in the sink, but there was a pile of mail and various wires and electronics from works in progress cluttering the granite countertop.

“I see you bring your work home with you,” Bond said. He expected nothing less from the workaholic that Q had become.

Q brought a bottle of vodka from the refrigerator. He tucked it between his cast and his belly, gripping it tight. With his right hand, he removed the stopper.

“You wouldn’t expect anything less, would you?” Q asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Bond replied.

Q took a bottle of Vermouth from a kitchen cabinet.

“Loo?” Bond asked, gesturing toward the hallway.

“First door on your left,” Q said.

Bond left the kitchen and made his way down the hall. Out of curiosity, he poked his head into the room on the right, which appeared to be some sort of office. Three walls of the office were lined with built-in bookcases. A white drafting desk stood in the centre of the room, Q’s tablet neatly resting beside a marble box that served as a pen holder.

Bond resumed his trip to the loo. He pissed, flushed, and washed his hands, drying them on a fluffy towel that hung from a hook on the back of the door. 

When he left the loo, he heard Q, still busy in the kitchen, so he ventured further down the hall to Q’s bedroom. The room at the end of the hall was filled with the aroma of Q, his shampoo, his tea, the faint scent of his cologne. A shiver went down Bond’s spine. The room was decorated in the same minimal style as the rest of the house. A king-sized four poster bed covered in a plush white duvet stood in the centre of the room. In some ways, Q’s home was more posh than the most lavish hotel room, yet the simple lines and sparse details beckoned for Bond to collapse into a comfortable chair, put his feet up and spend the next few hours lazing with a good book. At once, Bond could see why Q called this place his home. There was something strikingly comfortable about the house. The gentle scent of tea and spice wafted through each room. Bond decided that the house reminded him of Q himself, with the rich textured fabrics that begged to be touched, the calming atmosphere that invited exploration.

Returning to the kitchen Bond watched as Q worked to prepare the perfect dirty martini, shaking it gently in his right hand. He poured the concoction into a martini glass and set it in front of Bond.

Bond was sceptical, but he brought the drink to his lips and took a taste. It was delicious. “I had no idea of your mixology skills,” he said.

“I am a man of many talents,” Q said, covering his yawn with the back of his right hand.

Bond smiled and took another sip of his martini. Q was a grown man. He had made that clear. He wasn’t the childish boffin that Bond had always thought. When he and Bond first met in the National Gallery, Bond thought Q was a young art student looking for a sugar daddy. How very surprised Bond was to learn that Q had been promoted to Quartermaster. The quiet nerdy types could fool even the most experienced spy that way. They kept their talents hidden until the very last moment. Then, they pulled it out of their arse and saved the day. Bond could count dozens of occasions when just such an introverted brainiac had surprised him out of the blue. Q was no exception.

In the year since Q had taken over from the old Q, who was killed in the explosion that Silva wrought on MI6 headquarters, he had proven himself again and again. The latest danger that Q survived, the kidnapping and its aftermath, only gave Q more of an opportunity to prove himself a worthwhile ally to MI6 and all it stood for. Most men of Q’s age would flee for the next job offer. A safe occupation in cybersecurity for a firm, or a scrum-master for a software company. The world was Q’s oyster and yet he stayed with MI6. Bond admired him for that.

“How’s the martini?” Q asked.

Bond nodded his approval.

“You didn’t bring me here to ply me with alcohol so you could have your way with me,” Bond said. He was stunned to think that he saw a blush creep across Q’s cheeks. “What did you want to discuss?”

Q’s face fell. “Come with me,” he said.

Bond followed Q into the living room which was connected to the kitchen in an open concept design that was popular in gentrified buildings such as the ones in Q’s neighbourhood. Although Bond was taken aback by the interior décor of Q’s home. He found it exceedingly minimalist, but tastefully so. Q’s home was as messy as his workstation and office at MI6. Bits of motherboards and chips lay in various stages of disarray on Q’s kitchen counters, on his coffee table, and Bond presumed these partially disassembled electronics adorned Q’s bedroom as well, had be gotten a better look inside.

Bond had never known Q to have a lover, male or female. He accompanied Eve to many functions in and out of MI6. He supposed that Moneypenny had served as his plus one for more than a few occasions. A pang of jealousy crept through Bond. He realized that over the past year he had become possessive of Q and his gadgets. The weapons, the cars, the electronics were all coveted by a double-oh. But nothing was so important as Q himself. And while Bond may want Q as his own, Q was something untameable and unrestrainable. If he wanted Q, Q would have to come to Bond and offer himself of his own volition. If Bond sought to capture Q, he already understood that he would be sorely disappointed.

In Q’s living room Bond admired the pure white sofa sat adorned with a cashmere throw on one side of the room with two simple black leather hassocks arranged across from it. On one long wall behind the sofa, a collection of photographs were displayed in matching frames. On the opposite wall, a flat screen television was hung above a small black cabinet that presumably contained more traditional electronics. The walls of the room were painted a stark flat white. Each piece of furniture and accent reminded Bond of an architectural design book, one that featured an eclectic mixture of shiny chrome with antique white and black. Underfoot, a highly polished hardwood floor made every strand of shed cat fur congregate in the feline version of a dust bunny.

Bond stepped into the room and unceremoniously plopped his arse onto the sofa. He was grateful that he didn’t spill the martini, which he held precariously in one hand.

Q fell onto the sofa beside him, careful to not jostle his wrist, although it was protected by the cast.

“It’s about Alex Turner,” Q said.

Bond had figured as much. He gave a small grin, proud that he had such finely honed skills when it came to spying and figuring out what a person like Q had in mind.

“Do tell,” Bond said. He waited patiently for Q to respond. When he was certain that the Quartermaster was not going to divulge anything further, he went to speak, but Q beat him to the punch.

“I knew him,” Q said.

“How well did you know him?” Bond asked, a tinge of jealousy in his voice.

“I first met him a while ago,” Q said. “It was at a cybersecurity conference in Washington DC.”

“And when was this?” Bond asked.

“Before I was promoted to Q,” Q said.

“Did you know anything about the project he was working on?” Bond asked. “Anything that might give Frances a lead as to his whereabouts, if he is in fact alive?”

“I know something about the technology he was working on,” Q said. “We’ve met a few times over the past years. Not always in person—sometimes we met at high-tech cyber security conferences where the latest technology was used in practice. People was at the same conference while physically present in different cities. So Alex could be in Paris, I could be in London, and other tech gurus could be anywhere in the world. But Alex… he was on the cusp of devising an algorithm that could determine when a human being was telling the truth.”

“And when they were lying?” asked Bond.

“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Q said picking at the plaster on the edge of his cast. “I thought it was dangerous then. I can only imagine how dangerous it would be if he were successful.”

“So why have you asked me to come here, to give you a ride home?” Bond asked. “There’s more to this.”

“It’s guilt,” Q said.

Bond took a deep breath before he asked, “Q, did you have something to do with Alex Turner’s disappearance?”

To Bond’s great relief, Q answered immediately, “No nothing like that.”

“What then?” Bond asked. “I didn’t expect you to have such a guilty conscience.”

Without warning, Turing jumped onto Q’s lap. Q didn’t flinch. He stroked the tabby cat with his right hand.

“I helped him with his research,” Q said. “Of course we had met only once, but we communicated for several months thereafter via Skype and email.”

Bond nodded his head in understanding. Perhaps Q was a sensitive soul as he had first suspected, to feel such guilt over helping a colleague.

“And you feel as if the assistance you gave him led to his demise,” Bond said.

“It was cutting edge technology,” Q said. “Beyond facial recognition software. Alex was on the cusp of developing a programme that would be sought after by governments around the world, not just the EU. I tried to warn him that it could be dangerous.”

Bond let the governmental connection sink in. Had Alex been killed? Or was he kidnapped and being made to serve as a pawn for some governmental organization more powerful than MI6?

“Do you believe his is still alive?” Bond asked.

“I know the odds are against it,” Q said. “But I believe Alex Turner is more valuable alive than dead.”

“I know I’m old school, but such technology like that which Turner developed would probably require Turner to operate it,” Bond said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Q said. 

Bond downed the rest of his martini. “Then we need to see what we can do about getting him back.”

Turing leapt off Q’s lap and flopped down on the area rug in the centre of the room.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Q began. He took a deep breath and continued. “This has something to do with my kidnapping.”

Q’s kidnapping. Bond understood now. Q had insisted he was fine after he was rescued a week earlier. But now he wore a cast on his wrist and he invited Bond to his home. He was fearful of being kidnapped again. Or injured. Or he might be worried that he could be killed. Q wasn’t one to share his feelings with Bond, but now Bond knew why. Q needed Bond to look after him, to protect him, to keep the baddies away.

“I understand your reluctance to be alone, Q,” Bond said, putting on his best empathetic charm.

Q quirked an eyebrow. “What are you on about?”

“Your kidnapping,” Bond said, sliding like butter on a hot frying pan until he sat closer to Q on the sofa.

“What about it?” Q asked. “And, if you don’t mind, how about leaving me some personal space?”

“There’s no need to play coy, Q,” Bond said, pursuing his train of thought. “You asked me here because you need me.”

Q looked confused.

Bond realized that he should have stopped his pursuit at that point, but being that the Quartermaster looked so adorable in his butternut squash-coloured cardigan, he didn’t hold back.

“You want the kind of protection that a double-oh agent can offer you,” Bond said as he threw his arm around the back of the sofa in preparation for some canoodling. “And I’ll have you know that I am here to protect and serve.”

“Bond? You’ve lost your mind,” Q said.

“Hardly,” Bond said, leaning in to nuzzle the nape of Q’ neck. He couldn’t say exactly how he knew that Q would smell amazing, but it was probably something he had dreamed about for months, if not years. He opened his mouth and pressed a kiss to Q’s warm skin. Unfortunately, he wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

~

From the moment she saw him, she knew he was the one.

The Edgeware Road tube station had cleared out already. The usual rush hour traffic dissipated by seven o’clock on most nights. K-Lee shoved her hand into the pocket of her jeans, feeling for the hard outline of the switchblade against her thigh. He looked like an easy mark, a twink with a pair of earbuds blocking out the sound of her approach. She only had to slide the cold knife against his throat and he’d come willingly.

Marston required this of all the girls. Most couldn’t follow through.

K-Lee had more confidence than most girls in Marston’s camp though. While the other girls worked to make the perfect eyeliner wing, K-Lee couldn’t give a shit about make-up. While other girls perfected their slutty streetwalk, hoping to bring in a few extra pounds on the side, K-Lee practiced hand-to-hand combat with the other blokes. She had left more than one of them choking in the grime beneath the M1 overpass.

K-Lee had a size advantage, bigger, tougher, stronger than most men her age.

Marston insisted on the takedown as part of the gang initiation. As the newest member of their group, K-Lee knew her turn arrived. If she wanted to keep her place in the shelter beneath the overpass, she needed to pay. Sure, the traffic kept her awake at night, but the camaraderie of Marston’s gang gave her a fresh outlook that she never would have had if her mum hadn’t thrown her out. Drugging, gangbanging, when she stole the seven thousand pounds her mum had put away for her younger brother’s uni, it was the last straw. The gang beneath the overpass became her new family. K-Lee wanted to keep it that way.

“You find one, and you bring him to me,” Marston had said.

“Whatcha gonna do with him?” K-Lee asked. “I don’ wanna be part of no murder operation.”

“Who said anything about murder?” Marston asked. “We don’t got nothin’ to do with murder. Jus’ gonna have our fun with ‘im.”

K-Lee had agreed to the challenge. It might be the only way to keep a roof over her head. After all, Marston couldn’t be that dangerous with a business to run. Meth labs all over the city. Greenhouses in the southeast. Business boomed, despite the explosion that wiped out half the operation last month. Marson needed trustworthy people in the organization. People like K-Lee. She vowed that she wouldn’t be a disappointment.

As night fell through the open roof of Edgeware station, K-Lee’s plans imploded.

He got off the train, dark skin like an Indian, a skinny bloke with a messenger bag. K-Lee decided he was no boyfriend of the twink because a girl followed him out of the car, a real sight of a girl, mouth full of chewing gum, hair teased into a knot at the back of her head. Her bra straps hung halfway off her shoulders like electrical wires when they get covered with a heavy snow.

Twink boy took out his earbuds and punched the Indian in the arm, friendly-like. The girl threw her arms around twink’s neck. She groped at his front pocket for a packet of fags. He gave her one, lighting it after she shoved it into her mouth. The three of them made off for the exit, leaving K-Lee on her own.

K-Lee smashed her fist against the cinderblock wall of the tube station. Marston would have nothing to do with her now. Everything she had hoped to achieve this night was ruined by the twink’s friends showing up, just as she was about to take action with the blade. Marston would never let her hear the end of it now. She paced back and forth across the stained tile floor. None of the travellers in the station paid her any attention.

“Just get a grip on yerself,” she muttered aloud.

She ran a hand through her greasy hair. God, she needed a fix.

“Just wait, just wait,” she said, each breath puffing out harder than the last.

She wished she had a fag. It had been hours since she left the tent city and hours since she took a drag off a blunt. Marston would take care of her tonight though. All she had to do was come back with the goods. A warm body for Marston to have fun with. Somewhere inside, she hoped Marston wouldn’t kill him, but maybe that was the price to pay for her place in the organization.

K-Lee found a quiet corner in the station, dark so none of the coppers would see her and move her along. She sat with her legs folded underneath her sodden trousers. The sound of the trains rumbled through, shaking her and keeping her out of a near-slumber. The doors of the cars opened and closed as they brought the travellers to their destination, but K-Lee had only one destination in mind for herself—back beneath the M1, huddled in front of a barrel, warming her hands by the fire. This could only be possible if she brought Marston the goods. A fresh-faced naïve commuter—maybe Marston simply held the commuters hostage? Extorted money from their loved ones in order to keep up the supply chain for the meth labs. That was probably it. A hostage. K-Lee had seen a show about it once before, back when her mum could afford a television license. She wouldn’t feel any guilt over the twink giving up his riches. It probably happened all the time.

She closed her eyes, thinking about how happy Marston would be when she returned with her quarry. K-Lee would be looked after if she succeeded, wouldn’t she? Marston would let her have first pick of the rag bags that they stole from the donation bins outside the supermarkets. Maybe K-Lee would get to eat at the table where the higher-ups sat and pulled meat off the bones that they’d find in the dumpsters behind the restaurants. Maybe.

Hours passed, the station penetrated by the ever-present caution to “Please mind the gap.”

The station filled and emptied a hundred times, each time fewer people exited the cars. Fewer people entered the station. K-Lee sat waiting until the next pair of doors closed and the train rumbled away.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs awoke K-Lee from her half-sleep. The twink, the Indian, and the girl returned. K-Lee scrambled to her feet, feeling for the switchblade in her pocket. A new train rolled into the station, its brakes squealing like her mum’s voice when she found out about the cutting, blood-tinged razor blades in the bin of the loo. When the twink saw his friends off, K-Lee’s chance had come. 

The promise of a home, belonging, the sweet bliss of heroin through her veins.

The twink pulled his collar up against the cold. He put his earbuds in, one at a time, and fished around in his pocket for a fag. He lit it with his lighter and K-Lee followed him through the station. In the darkness, she called out for help. The twink turned to face her and she grabbed him around the waist. His fag dropped to the station floor. K-Lee used her brawn to pull his arm, twisting it behind his back, catching him off-guard.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted, but there was no one there to hear.

She held the blade against his neck, ready to stick it in. A trickle of blood spilled down the twink’s neck, staining his shirt.

K-Lee pressed the blade more firmly and said, “Shut up and follow me.”

~

Q burst out laughing.

As much as he enjoyed Bond’s attention, the sheer cheesiness of his actions made him laugh. He was torn by his feelings of guilt over not warning Alex Turner sufficiently enough to prevent his death, torture, or worse, and his feelings of exhilaration that Bond finally paid him some proper attention in the privacy of his own home.

It was rumoured that Bond was an expert in seduction. Although Q had been on the receiving end of Bond’s feeble attempts at work, this was different. He had brought Bond into his home. At the forefront of his mind was his concern for Alex Turner’s well-being—if he still lived. Secondarily, and perhaps even more importantly, Q was worried about what havoc Turner’s truth algorithms would bring on the free world. He could only imagine the trauma that would be cause if a leader such as Donald Trump got control over such technology. Talk about fake news!

He wanted to let Bond know that he had met Turner and advised him on various aspects of his project. When Eve told the story of Frances Turner and Danny Holt approaching MI6 for help, Q put two and two together. Could his kidnapping be related to Turner’s disappearance?

Bond’s hot breath on the back of his neck was the icing on the cake. 

Bond leaned back, mouth gaping like a fish.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced that reaction before,” Bond said.

“Get over yourself,” Q said, getting up from the sofa. He walked toward the kitchen and called back, “Can I make you another martini?”

Bond straightened up, and said, “I really won’t be able to drive if I have another. Unless you expect me to spend the night, I wouldn’t risk it.”

Q cracked a smile, grateful that Bond couldn’t see his face. He pushed his glasses up onto his nose and poured vodka into the shaker. Now, he was just being cruel.

A Quartermaster of MI6 would have to be quite skilled in order to keep up with the likes of a double-oh. Granted, Q had a kinky side that he only showed to the closest of lovers, but this was hardly the time or place to pursue a night of frolic with Bond. Besides, he knew Bond had at least a small modicum of integrity—enough so that he didn’t have to worry about being taken advantage of in Bond’s inebriated state. All yearning to tap Bond’s arse aside, Q wanted to work on a plan for finding Alex Turner and possibly bringing him back to London so MI6 could use his skills for their own purposes.

Q finished making Bond’s martini and brought it back into the living room.

“One dirty martini,” Q announced as he handed the drink to Bond. 

“Cheers,” Bond said, “but must I drink alone?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Q said. “I wouldn’t want to do anything I’ll regret in the morning.”

“Oh, you’re a sly one,” Bond said, taking a sip.

“Now, about this connection between my kidnapping and Alex Turner,” Q said, sitting back down on the sofa. “Any ideas?”

Bond set his drink down on the coffee table and drew his mobile out of his trouser pocket. He found his contact and entered a message.

Q raised his eyebrows and cocked his head.

“My friend Felix works for the CIA,” Bond explained. “If Alex is in the U.S. as you suspect, he may be able to help us.”

“I appreciate it,” Q said, stretching his arms out to his sides while he yawned.

“It’s getting late,” Bond said, looking at his Omega. “You must be tired. I should be going.”

“I’m not letting you leave in your condition,” Q said. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out Bond’s car keys.

Bond’s mouth fell open wide.

“And I’m not letting you put another ding in that Aston Martin,” Q said, knocking shoulders with Bond.

“You have a king-sized bed,” Bond remarked, all sexy, his brilliant blue eyes at half mast.

Q knew Bond was looking for an invitation.

“The sofa pulls out to a bed,” Q reminded him before he could get the wrong idea.

As lovely as it would be to take Bond to bed, Q forced himself to show some restraint. Besides, if Felix came through with some information about Alex Turner, Q wanted to be on top of his game. And likewise, if Q ever got the opportunity to take Bond to bed, he wanted a partner who was sober and coherent.

“I’ll grab some sheets and a blanket for you,” Q said, “and I have a few new toothbrushes under the sink into the loo.” 

“Expecting some special overnight guests?” Bond asked, in a lascivious tone.

“No,” replied Q. “My dentist gives me a handful of them, whenever I visit.”

Q patted himself on the back for the witty comeback. He appreciated Bond’s help when it came to determining if there was a connection between the kidnapping and Turner. And as for sleeping with Bond, he’d wait until he had an opportunity to play his hand the way he saw fit. 

~


	5. Chapter 5

“Hello.”

“It’s me, ~~Adele~~ Danny. Frances?”

Frances listened to Danny’s voice on her mobile. He sounded like he had swallowed a mouthful of gravel. That’s what a night of drinking and taking drugs would do to a person’s voice, wasn’t it? Frances hoped that he had simply spent the night with his old roommates who he visited in the East End the night before, but she’d be a fool to deny that she hadn’t been worrying about him as the evening wore on.

“Danny, where are you? It’s 6:00 AM.” Frances’ shoes marched toward the breezeway. She opened the garage door, but Scottie’s car that he had bequeathed to Danny sat there, untouched. Danny had never been comfortable driving in London traffic. He took the Tube, even when he no longer needed to scrimp for every pound note that he earned, rather than fill the tank with petrol.

“Frances, there are some people here who want to talk to you,” Danny said, his voice quivering uncomfortably. “You need to help me.”

“Danny, have you been arrested?” Frances had to ask. Danny had shared some tales of his past with her and despite his sudden fortune that he inherited from Scottie at his death, Frances always thought Danny was one step away from being thrown into jail for his many misdeeds. Alex’s death and the appearance of the clue that seemed to indicate he was still alive wreaked havoc on Danny’s emotions. 

Had the breaking point finally been reached?

Frances became alarmed when she heard a woman’s voice laughing in the background.

“If you want to get your boy-toy back, you’ll need to follow our directions exactly,” K-Lee said, obviously taking the mobile of Danny’s hands.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Frances said. “Daniel is young enough to be my grandson. Who is this? What do you want with us?”

“I see your boy wonder here driving around in fancy car, buying whatever suits his fancy,” K-Lee said. “I figure he’s got loads stashed away and I want some of what’s due to me.”

“Frances, you need to do what they say,” Danny yelled in the background.

A loud thump seemed to stop his shouting.

“Let me just say this,” K-Lee said, her mouth close to the speaker, “you’re damn lucky you have money or Danny boy wouldn’t be alive right now.”

“Marston will kill you if you tell her that,” another voice, a male who sounded nothing like Danny, spoke in the background.

Frances gripped the edge of the door frame, her knuckles turning white. She had already planned to call Eve Moneypenny when the call ended. She was certain that the people who took Alex now had Danny. If she could get to Danny, she could find Alex… alive.

“What is it you want from us?” she asked. “What do you expect us to do?”

“Plan to meet us at the intersection of Bromley Hall Road and Lochnager Street. There’s a little park, you’ll see us all right. Be there in an hour. And bring your chequebook. You’d better get here in a hurry, if you want to see Danny again,” K-Lee said before hanging up.

“Wait, how do I know that Danny is unharmed?” Frances asked, but there was no one to answer her.

She grabbed her coat from the hall closet and ran to Scottie’s guest room to search through the suitcase of belongings she had brought there from her home.

“Chequebook? Who still used a chequebook in this day and age?” Frances muttered to herself.

Fortunately, she managed to find a few blank cheques that she had stashed away in her purse in case of emergency. She threw her purse onto the passenger’s seat of Scottie’s car and drove toward Bow. 

The rush hour traffic was terrible on a Friday morning. She fumbled with her mobile to search for the number Moneypenny had given to her days before. The MI6 agent turned administrative assistant was apologetic when she explained that there wasn’t enough to go on from the mysterious cardboard food box that had been sent to Danny, but that she was having a few of her MI6 colleagues look into the matter of Alex’s death.

Frances came to a stop near the intersection of Highgate Hill and Archway Road. Why the hell they needed to re-route traffic around a church mystified her. She hit the mobile to dial Eve, but it went to voicemail. Only the most staunch supporters of MI6 would be at work this early in the morning. She left a message saying Danny had got into a bit of trouble and that she needed help. She gave the address, just in case. There was no point to going on about the situation when she knew so little herself.

~

When Eve arrived at Le Papillon for her morning cup of coffee and toast, Barbara was in tears. She sat on the sideway outside the restaurant. Eve watched as Barbara tried to open a used tissue to get more real estate when blowing her nose, but it the tissue fell apart in her hands.

“Here, Barbara, let me help you,” Eve said, pulling up to a stop in front of her. She warily eyed the pedestrian traffic on the pavement so she could get closer to Barbara. Fishing through her purse in search of a handkerchief, she found one and brought it forth.

Barbara’s sobbing drew the attention of those who passed by, but apparently there were no friends to be found on the London street. She looked utterly miserable and, having never seen her in that state before, Eve decided that she could try to help her.

Grateful that she wore a pantsuit today, lest she flash all of London, Eve squatted down to Barbara’s level and offered her the clean handkerchief.

“Thank you so much, Eve,” Barbara said, still sobbing wretchedly. She blew her nose loudly before attempting to hand the handkerchief back to Eve.

“That’s all right,” Eve said with a smile and a wave of her hand. “You can keep it.”

“I’m so sorry,” Barbara said, looking around at the people who obliviously continued on their way. “I’m making a fool of myself.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Eve said, glancing at the people who stepped away unconcernedly from where Barbara sprawled across the pavement. “Whatever is the matter?”

More people passed, stepping over Barbara’s legs that were splayed across the bricks that adorned the sidewalk.

Eve tried to be patient, but truly the sooner she got Barbara out of the way of the pedestrians, the better. She wondered why Barbara was in such a miserable frame of mind. To make matter worse, a light rain began to fall.

“I’ve messed up one too many times,” Barbara said, fresh tears in her eyes. “Ingmar’s manager, Sylvain, has deemed me unfit to serve Le Papillon’s clients. I’ve been fired from my job.” Barbara’s body wracked with sobs.

Eve wrapped her arms around Barbara’s shoulders. “There, there,” she said. “I’m so sorry. Surely something can be done?”

“I should have known better,” Barbara sniffed. “When Monsieur Rabbat asked if the sole was fresh, I told him that the chef had added it to the special menu because it had been sitting out since morning.” Barbara dissolved into crying again, big ugly tears rolling down her face.

“Oh dear,” Eve said, leaning back from Barbara’s embrace.

“It was so stupid of me,” Barbara said. “I knew I should have lied, but the truth slipped out. It always does with me.”

“That seems like a forgivable offense,” Eve said. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’ve been a wonderful server when my colleagues and I have been seated at your table. It’s not that bad, you’ll be able to find another job soon.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” Barbara said. “But that’s not all.”

“I see,” Eve said as raindrops began to fall, darkening the London sidewalk. She dreaded what Barbara might say next about her firing. “There were more complaints about me. Sylvain said I was the worst server ever and he would recommend that I look for a different line of work.”

Eve felt terrible for Barbara. She watched the spatter of rain as dark clouds moved over the city. The lunch crowd who gathered on the street promptly opened their umbrellas to keep dry in the sudden storm.

“You can tell me more,” Eve said, “but we should move inside or we’re going to get soaked.”

“Well, we can’t very well go into Le Papillon, can we?” Barbara began to cry again.

Eve looked up and down the street. Fortunately, a Costa Coffee shop was only a block away, although she detested their coffee, it wouldn’t hurt to get Barbara indoors.

“Let’s take a walk,” Eve said, rising to her feet. “Give me your hand.”

She carefully helped Barbara up from the sidewalk. Taking her arm, she guided her to the nearby coffee shop.

“I’ll never succeed at waitressing,” Barbara cried. “Everything is so complicated. I can’t get any of the orders right. I spend too much time tallying the number of chia seeds on the beetroot salad, counting how many eggs were in a gram of caviar, making sure each piece of cheese on the charcuterie board measured precisely four centimetres square.”

Eve squinted at Barbara and she catalogued the number of times she ensured that she had counted a food item correctly.

“Well, at least they can’t say you didn’t pay attention to detail,” Eve said.

When they arrived inside Costa Coffee, Eve quickly found a table and ordered two cappuccinos.

“But I can’t possibly pay you for this,” Barbara cried.

“No, darling,” Eve said, squeezing Barbara’s wrist. “There’s no need. It’s my treat.”

Eve had never seen Barbara so upset. She could understand her concern over losing her job, but her level of distress seemed to be quite uncharacteristic. Eve knew Barbara to be nothing less than professional when she served the colleagues from MI6.

Barbara took a sip of her cappuccino and she seemed to calm down.

“I’ve always been so detailed and forthright,” Barbara sniffled. “No one appreciates it, except my pen pal—who seems to admire my attention to detail, even though he’s never experienced it firsthand. I never thought it would be something that would make me lose my job.”

Eve shook her head. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. We’ll find you another job straightaway.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck over this. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll find somewhere else to spend my days.”

The coffee shop bustled with activity at the lunch hour. The smell of freshly ground coffee wafted through the air. Although she had her heart set on a fresh cup of coffee at Le Papillon, Costa’s caffeine would have to do.

“Pardon my asking,” Eve said, “but if you’re short on cash… if you’re in debt, I could make you a small loan.”

Eve felt like she must do something to help Barbara, but she didn’t want to sound overly patronizing. She only wanted to help, but she felt entirely helpless. She remembered with trepidation the time when she thought she might be fired from MI6. She was so worried. Shooting Bond was a far greater offense than counting caviar eggs. She worried about paying her bills, she worried about having to leave an organization that she loved, but most of all, she worried that Bond would never forgive her. He died at her hands. He was dead. Shot to death by a weapon that Eve handled. Eve couldn’t bring herself to ever fire a weapon again. Of course, things became quite a bit sunnier when he returned form the dead, of course. If only Eve could offer Barbara that kind of relief.

Perhaps she could.

“Barbara, if I told you about an opening with my employer that might suit you, would you be willing to apply for the job?”

Barbara’s eyes flew open wide. “Do you mean it?”

Eve had known Barbara to keep gossip from the MI6 table in the strictest confidence. “Of course I mean it,” Eve said. “I think you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Is it waiting tables?” Barbara asked. “I think I’d like to give up on that as a career. I don’t know what else I’d be successful at doing.”

“It’s a little more challenging than waiting on tables, but I think you’d be up for it.” Eve squeezed Barbara’s hand. “Leave everything to me.”

~

Q awoke on his sofa with James Bond’s arms wrapped around him. The first thought he had was of how warm and cosy it felt to be surrounded by so much muscle. Bond’s chest was deliciously firm and the sleepy mixture of Bond’s cologne with the masculine essence of Bond himself made Q dizzy. The second thought was the strange aftertaste in his mouth. He didn’t remember drinking any vodka, and yet the impression left on his taste buds reminded him of his experimentation days in uni. 

Q wasn’t a regular user of recreational drugs in uni, but his first year roommate, and sometimes fuckbuddy, Malcolm Beekman, was a pre-veterinary student. As part of his education, Malcolm spent the better part of the weekends volunteering at the RSPCA. The benevolent animal-loving Board of Directors never would have suspected that the young Mr. Beekman would abuse his privileges to access the various delights that were normally kept under lock and key in the RSPCA’s treatment room.

Malcolm introduced Q to Sodium Pentobarbital, not the silly so-called truth serum—Sodium Pentothal, although they tried that too. Much more blissful were the anaesthetics. Acepromazine when he wanted to sleep, ketamine when he wanted to forget, isoflurine if they wanted to have a party.

The taste in Q’s mouth brought back memories.

Q shifted in Bond’s arms, suddenly aware that his cock was painfully hard. It had been a long week with the cast on his wrist and he could do with some relief. It was his own fault that it felt as if his semen had backed up into his brain. When he masturbated, he liked to encircle the base of his cock with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand while he stroked himself off with his right. Too stubborn to change things up and try a new technique while he endured the casted wrist, and too concerned about soiling the plaster with his seed, he had decided to forego the pleasures of the flesh. He hadn’t planned to go the entire six weeks without relief, he just thought he would see how long he could refrain from pleasuring himself.

“Fuck,” Q said. He twisted his way out of Bond’s arms.

Bond’s eyes opened.

Q stood in front of the sofa and shouted, “You fucking roofied me!”

“What?” Bond asked, regaining the use of his arms.

“I can’t believe you,” Q yelled, folding his arms across his chest and pacing back and forth furiously.

“What are you on about?” Bond sat up.

“Of all the things to do to me after what I’ve been through these past couple weeks,” Q continued his rant. “And in my own home!”

“What are you talking about? You think I drugged you?” Bond asked, scratching the back of his neck.

“What’s this I taste?” Q asked, sticking his tongue between his lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bond insisted.

“You must have done it when we were in Le Papillon. Or maybe you spiked my tea,” Q said, picking up the mug that he had set on the coffee table the night before and taking a sniff of the dregs.

“Q, you’ve lost your mind,” Bond said.

“I know my animal tranquilizers,” Q said, licking his lips. “Did you think you would get me home and I would just fall into bed with you? Oh, that’s rich, Bond.”

“Jesus, Q, calm down,” Bond said. He moved to lay his hands on Q’s shoulders to calm him when his mobile began to ring.

“Of all the damn times,” Q complained. “Don’t answer that while I’m chastising you. We have mandatory drug testing at MI6, don’t you know!”

Bond reached for his mobile, which had apparently been lost in the cushions of the sofa. He dug around for it while the ringing continued.

“Bond here,” he said, finally locating it and putting it to his ear.

Q waved his hands in the air and marched into the loo. He turned both taps on and immediately regretted that he shoved both hands under the flow of water.

“Fucking fuck!” he shouted and grabbed the towel from the back of the door to dry the cast. 

He tore off his glasses and tossed them onto the vanity. With his right hand, he splashed some water onto his face. He noticed the toothbrush that Bond had used sitting beside the toothpaste on the vanity. So, Bond must have slipped him a mickey, brushed his teeth, and then cuddled the night away while Q was passed out on the sofa. That man was so infuriating.

Q dragged the towel over his face. Jesus, he had a bad case of bedhead. He stopped to arrange his hair so it looked like it belonged to a MI6 department head and not James Bond’s fuckboy.

He’d kill Bond if he let word of this incident get out at MI6. On second thought, he should go to M directly and lodge a formal complaint. No, he’d just get himself in trouble for fraternizing with Bond, who apparently had no respect whatsoever for his superiors.

What could Bond hope to achieve by drugging him? Unless perhaps Eve put him up to it. Oh, yes, Tanner and she were probably having a good laugh about it right now. Well, he’d have a word with her about it when he got into work. It would not be pleasant.

“Q?” Bond asked.

Q looked up to see Bond standing at the door.

“That was Felix, my connection at the CIA,” Bond said. “Turns out, they are already on top of the Turner situation.”

“Are they going after Turner so he’ll work for them? Did they kidnap him?” Q asked, suddenly more calm and rational than he had been in the past five minutes.

Bond shook his head. “It’s not them, but they have one of their undercover agents on it,” he said. “I’d be willing to bet that he’s the one who passed the evidence of Alex’s survival to Danny Holt.”

“What are we going to do about it?” Q asked.

“I think we should fly to DC,” Bond said.

~


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Eve got Frances’ voicemail, Bond and Q had already left for Heathrow. She had done what she could to help them make travel plans, but since they were on their own, there was a limit to how many of MI6’s resources she could funnel to their personal mission. She caught Tanner just as he was going for another cup of coffee.

“Fancy going for a ride?” she asked.

“Where to?” Tanner enquired. “I thought you’d be taking Bond and Q to the airport?”

“They left a couple hours ago,” Eve said. “I ran into a snag on my way into work this morning and now I’m needed elsewhere.”

“You’re the grease of the wheels that keep MI6 running, Miss Moneypenny,” Tanner said. “Let me get my jacket.”

Eve waited by the elevators until Tanner had a chance to make sure nothing was going to explode if he was gone for an hour or two. With both Bond and Q out of MI6 for a few more days of their mandatory after action leave, there wasn’t too much trouble lurking at the SIS building.

“Where are we off to?” Tanner asked as they entered the elevator.

“Do you remember me telling you about Frances Turner?” Eve asked. She punched the button for the parking garage.

“Oh, yes, the mother of that whiz kid gone missing,” Tanner said with a nod.

“Now his partner may be in trouble,” Eve said.

The elevator deposited them on the level of the garage where the employee parking was located.

“We can go in mine,” Eve said, fishing her car keys out of her purse.

“Of course,” Tanner said.

In short order, they were driving down the streets of London, heading for the docklands.

“That’s a rough part of town,” Tanner remarked when they passed a half-dozen chop shops.

“It’s the address Frances gave,” Eve said. 

“Is this where she’s living?” Tanner asked.

“Oh, no,” Eve said, turning onto Bromley Hall Road. “She strikes me as being a bit more posh than that. I think she’s staying with Danny. He inherited a sizeable estate when a friend passed away.”

“That must be some friend,” Tanner said.

“He left him that car, too,” Eve said, pointing to the Jensen CV8 parked in front of the scrapyard.

“Good eye, Eve,” Tanner said. “Did you pick it out because it’s a diamond of a car in this dodgy neighbourhood?”

“Not quite,” Eve said, putting her car into Park. I saw Frances driving it when we met at Le Papillon a few days ago.”

Eve exited the car and checked her sidearm. It was never a bad idea to be prepared.

 

~

The plane hadn’t even taken off yet and Q looked terrified.

“I don’t know how I let you talk me into this, Bond,” Q said as he struggled with his seatbelt.

“Did I really need to talk you into it, or did your overwhelming sense of guilt over failing to warn Alex Turner about the consequences of his prowess with technology convince you to do the right thing?”

Bond leaned over and yanked on the end of the seatbelt that had been tucked under Q’s arse.

Q yelped out a most undignified “Oof.”

“Let me help you with this,” Bond said. “Good Christ, you’d think you never flew on a bloody plane before.”

At that moment, the flight attendant whose nametag indicated that her name was “Shannon,” chose to appear in the aisle. “Is everything all right gentlemen?” she asked.

“He’ll be fine in a moment,” Bond said with a reassuring smile. “First time flyer.”

Shannon gave a chuckle and said, “I could get you a booster seat and some colouring books if you like.”

Bond let out a guffaw, but Q looked absolutely affronted. He snarled at Shannon’s back as she continued down the narrow aisle. 

“You might like the colouring books,” Bond said as Q continued to struggle to fit the buckle into its receptor. Apparently the cast on his wrist made it all but impossible. “It might take your mind off the flight.”

Bond reached for Q’s hands and forced them to stop moving. He pinned his wrists in place and felt the heat exuding from Q’s right wrist, while he left wrist was a hard bulk of cold plaster. Without using much force, Bond set Q’s hands on his armrests and nodded for Q to keep them there while Bond let go. Since the Quartermaster obeyed, Bond was free to locate both ends of Q’s seatbelt. He buckled him in without any fuss at all. Bond could almost feel Q’s feart racing through his ugly jumper, the hideous striped one that’s turtleneck covered up Q’s loveliest feature, his delicious-looking neck.

“Are we done now?” Q asked, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

“If you’ll stop fidgeting, the nice flight attendant may come back and offer us a drink,” Bond said.

Q growled at Bond, literally growled.

“Down, boy! We don’t want to be thrown off the plane,” Bond reminded.

This trip was going to be long and difficult enough without Q behaving like a cornered animal before they even left the ground. At least Eve was able to pull a few strings to get them First Class tickets, even though this flight wasn’t official MI6 business.

M didn’t want to get involved in CIA business until he knew more, so while he couldn’t give Bond’s ad hoc investigation his seal of approval, he didn’t bat an eyelash when he approved Bond and Q’s vacation request for time off. Besides, Q had two weeks of mandatory leave to burn after his kidnapping incident.

Bond figured that if Felix came through with any useable information, M would be onboard with it, especially if it proved to be connected with Q’s kidnapping.

Tanner and R’s teams continued to work to uncover who was behind Q’s capture, but the dead men that Bond left on the floor of the building where Q was held offered no clues. Q’s laptop contained tracking data, but since he programmed it to self-destruct at the first sign of danger, it wasn’t of much use. The team that recovered the computers from the kidnappers worked to decrypt the encoded data that could offer more information. R continued to piece together the scenario that would have led them to believe that Q was a valuable asset to them, but so far, nothing made any sense.

Bond settled in as the jet engines rumbled to life before takeoff. He acted like he was interested in the flight attendant’s spiel about what to do in case of emergency. Q still looked like he was a wreck as the plane began its slow crawl away from the gate.

“I’ll tell you what,” Bond said, reaching into his pocket. “I wasn’t going to resort to this, but I truly think it will help you.”

“Unless you have a plan that involves us turning back to the gate and me getting off this plane, I don’t want to hear it,” Q said.

“This will calm you, I promise,” Bond said.

“What is it? Going to slip something into my drink again?” Q asked angrily.

“Q, you know I never would do such a thing,” Bond said. “Besides, the blood panel that medical ran on you was inconclusive. It was probably the residual effect of something they used on you when you were kidnapped. You know that’s the truth.”

Q looked out the window. The pavement rolled by slowly as the plane approached the runway.

“Q? You know I didn’t drug you, right?” Bond asked, jabbing Q in the side with an elbow.

Q muttered the most unconvincing, “I guess so,” that Bond had ever heard.

“Well, now that we’ve cleared that up,” Bond said, “I have something for you.”

Bond held his closed fist in front of Q.

“What is it?” Q asked.

“Drugs,” Bond said.

The plane rumbled as the jets fired up for takeoff.

“Before we left Six, I took the liberty of getting some Valium from medical for you.”

“Trying to drug me again?” Q said. “After all that from before? You’re something else, Bond.”

“I did it with your sanity in mind,” Bond said. “At least you could show some appreciation.”

The plane shuddered as the pilot increased their speed. The engines roared louder. Bond was certain that Q felt every bump as the plane sped down the tarmac.

“Give me that,” Q said, grabbing Bond’s fist and forcing it open. He plopped the little orange pill into his mouth just as the plane’s wheels left the ground and the thrust of the engines sent them hurtling off the planet.

“But, I thought you said—”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Q said. “And thanks, Bond. I appreciate your concern.”

“I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason,” Bond said.

Q stared numbly out the window as the Thames fell away. Bond bided his time while he waited for the tranquilizer to take effect on Q. He considered it an honour that Q would even consider getting on a plane, considering the irrational fear he had of flying. Bond imagined that the guilt Q felt for not helping Alex Turner as much as he could have weighed heavily on Q’s mind. It probably wasn’t too long ago that Q found himself on the cusp of a technological breakthrough and surrounded by people who were a lot older and possibly a lot wiser than him. It may have been hard for him to know to whom he could turn for information that would keep him moving forward with his discoveries and research, but also safe from harm. Bond decided that Q was a lot braver than Bond usually gave him credit for, even if he couldn’t fly in a plane without acting like a terrified two-year-old.

Several minutes later, the pilot announced that they were approaching cruising altitude and drink service would begin.

“Thank God,” Bond muttered.

Q sat up straight now that clouds obscured the features of the earth below. It was a small comfort for Bond that he wouldn’t have to watch the Quartermaster shake with fear as he gazed out the window.

When Shannon came around to First Class, Bond ordered his usual vodka martini.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Q told Shannon when she took his order.

“Are you sure about that?” Bond asked when Shannon departed for the wet bar to mix their drinks.

“Bond, it’s a nine hour flight,” Q said. “I just took five milligrams of Valium. After I drink my martini, I’ll be fast asleep. You can wake me up when we get there.” 

~

Danny struggled to free himself from the thugs who held him against his will. There were fewer of them than he first anticipated, but being a skinny out-of-shape smoker, he had no chance against their beefy arms and surly behaviour.

“Where is Alex?” he demanded as they tied him to a chair. The smell of automotive oil permeated the air. They were in some type of storage facility for used car parts, he guessed. His arms ached as the thugs tied the ropes that bound him tighter.

“You’ll be seeing a friend, soon enough,” K-Lee said, her switchblade flashing in the morning light that filtered through the dingy windows of the warehouse.

A friend, Danny thought. He could only hope that this whole dramatic shitshow had something to do with Alex. “Please be Alex,” he silently prayed.

“What’s Marston want with this one?” one of the thugs with the tattooed letters “J.E.S.” across his neck asked.

“Damned if I know,” K-Lee answered.

“Probably just want to make ‘im squirm,” the thug with the chain that he used as a belt, answered.

Danny hoped that the thug would continue to use the chain for a belt. He shuddered at the thought of being beaten or killed by these hoodlums. Time passed inexorably slowly as the gang waited in the warehouse. No one paid much attention to Danny now that he was bound, and for that, he was grateful.

As the minutes ticked off on an imaginary clock, Danny decided that death was more acceptable to him than being beaten. The more he thought about it, the more welcoming death became. He had made an utter mess of his life. Maybe death would give him a better hand to play. He’d see Scottie again, and maybe even Alex. He closed his eyes as fresh tears began to fall down his cheeks.

“Knock it off, you goddamn crybaby,” the JES thug yelled, smacking Danny across the face with the back of his hand.

The smack stung, and Danny fought to regain his composure well enough to speak.

“Okay,” Danny said. “I’ll do whatever you ask.” He fought back tears and he waited with the thugs for this enigmatic Marston to show up and decide what to do with him.

And then Danny took heart briefly, remembering his call to Frances. Danny hoped that she was on her way. Whatever she had in her bank account was of value to these thugs.

After a painfully long period of meditation, the sound of a garage door opening made Danny sit up straight. He watched as two of Marston’s men ushered Frances through the warehouse, dodging the automotive parts that lined the walls and littered the floor.

Danny noticed that Frances was wise enough to go along willingly, saving herself from some of the roughing-up that Danny received.

“I demand to know what you want from us,” Frances said immediately. Then she nodded at Danny. “Danny, are you all right?”

Danny swallowed hard and nodded, afraid that speaking again would get him another smack across the face.

“Who are you working for?” Frances asked. “You told me to bring my chequebook, and here I am.”

“Marston will want that,” K-Lee said.

“And where is this _Marston_?” Frances asked. “I demand to meet with him at once. I’m sure we can reach some sort of an agreement.”

JES sniggered. “No one meets with Marston.”

Frances looked dazed. “Well, how will be settle this?” Frances asked.

Danny had been watching his feet as he sat in the chair. He couldn’t bear to see what Marston’s gang of thugs might do to a woman of Frances’ age. All told, she could probably do better in a fistfight than Danny ever would.

K-Lee fired up a tablet, presumably to video conference Marston in on their proceedings.

Danny’s trainers were in need of replacement. The soles had been worn and his pinkie toe threatened to burst through the outside edge of the canvas.

Just then, Danny heard a man shout, “Freeze!”

The shout caught the gang members, as well as Frances and Danny off-guard.

“Put your hands where I can see them!” A woman shouted.

Danny chanced a look to the far corner of the warehouse where a scaffolding had provided these friends or foes some cover.

Every non-existent muscle in Danny’s body froze when he heard the gunfire. He closed his eyes and squeezed them shut.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Danny opened his eyes to peer through the smoke of the gunfight. He saw that JES fell where he stood.

K-Lee looked at the gaping hole in her chest, before dropping to the floor and writhing in painful death throes.

His gun still in his hand, chain-belt thug fell over dead, but not before putting a bullet through Frances Turner’s head.

~


	7. Chapter 7

When they landed at Dulles, Q was still snoring. Bond smirked at the sight of the sleeping Quartermaster. He had to check for a pulse a few times during the flight because Q slept so soundly. Maybe it wasn’t wise for him to order that second dirty martini.

“Q?” Bond said, jostling Q’s arm. “Wakey, wakey.”

Q turned his face away from Bond as Shannon turned the fasten seatbelts sign off and thanked the passengers for flying British Airways.

“Q, time to go,” Bond said. He was grateful that he didn’t have to listen to Q’s shrieking during the flight, nor did he have to pry Q’s terrified fingers from his thigh, but now it was time for Q to get moving.

Q finally jolted awake when the other passengers began to retrieve their carry-on bags from the overhead compartments.

“What?” Q asked. “What time is it?”

“According to my Omega, it’s just after sixteen hundred,” Bond said.

Q yawned and stretched his arms out across the row. “But is it today, or tomorrow?” he asked.

“What are you on about?” Bond asked.

“We left around seven. It should be evening by now. We’ve been flying for hours,” Q complained.

Bond knew Q was smarter than that. The effects of the Valium and the alcohol much have been making him think incoherently. “You should never have ordered the second martini,” Bond said.

“I just want to go back to sleep,” Q said, as the other passengers filed out of the plane.

“We’ll get you a hotel room straight away,” Bond said. He took his mobile from his pocket and began to search for a room. He knew he should have asked Eve to take care of these arrangements before they left, but since this mission wasn’t officially on the books, he had no choice but to look for a room on his own. He scrolled through the booking site and picked the first room on offer. The Marriott was close to the centre of DC and from the photos he could made out in his sleepless haze, it looked less pretentious than the more expensive suites in the surrounding neighbourhood. That would be good for maintaining their cover of travelling businessmen.

“That’s done,” Bond said. “Let’s go before Shannon kicks us off the plane.”

Bond practically dragged Q through customs. He hoped that the boffin had sense enough to remember that they were travelling under assumed identities. All he needed was to cause an international incident while investigating what happened to a mathematical genius who was being held by potentially nefarious babysitters.

They managed to make it through customs without incident. Q leaned against Bond while they waited for their suitcases to tumble down the ramp at the baggage claim. Bond couldn’t decide whether Q needed some coffee to keep him awake or if it would be best for both of them to sleep off most of the jet lag by checking into their hotel for a nap.

A nap it would be, Bond decided as he passed the Gate D Dunkin Donuts at Dulles. “Try to say that three times fast,” he chuckled.

“What?” Q asked.

“Never mind,”” Bond said.

Outside the terminal, Bond hailed a taxi and stuffed their bags into the boot. The driver only wanted to talk about the Nationals’ loss to the Cubs the night before. Apparently he had gotten even less of a restful sleep than Q had.

Q still seemed like he might pass out at any moment. He rested his head on Bond’s shoulder as the taxi wound its way through the city. When they pulled up to the hotel, Bond noticed a fresh patch of drool on the wool.

“Come on, Q. Up you go,” he said as he tried to get Q to stand.

Bond quickly paid the driver and ushered Q into the hotel.

The Marriott front desk clerk, Chloe, gave them a pair of keycards to access their room, saying, “The manager said you’d be wanting to check in early, but not this early. I should have guessed by the odd time that you made your reservation that you were Brits.”

“Very astute of you, Chloe,” Bond said. “I can assure you that we’re not here to try to take our colony back. Just the room, please.”

“Who could blame you? No one wants anything to do with Americans nowadays,” Chloe said. “Breakfast service ended a couple hours ago, but we have a vending machine around the corner. Enjoy your stay.”

Bond nodded to Chloe, and punched the up button outside the elevator. Room 721 would be one of the higher floors. He did hope that he would have a good view of the city. Q slumped against him as the elevator bell dinged to say that they had arrived on the seventh floor.

“I hope we don’t have much further to walk,” Q complained. “I’m dead on my feet.”

“You can sleep it off once we get there,” Bond said. “I’ll text Felix and move our meeting up to later this afternoon.”

“You would do that for me, Bond?” Q asked with a sleepy smile.

“Of course, dear,” Bond said. “As long you promise we will never fly together again, I’d do anything for you.”

“Arse,” Q said as they arrived at room 721. 

Bond slid his keycard into the slot and got the green light to enter. He pushed the door open and shoved his way inside, dragging both his and Q’s luggage across the tiled entryway.

“Thank God we’re finally here,” Q said, flipping on a light. He shrugged out of his parka, leaving it on the floor while he marched directly into the loo.

Bond heard the water running after Q used the toilet. He could do with some freshening up himself after the long flight. He dropped the bags in the entry way and texted Felix to make sure they were on for later in the day. Felix indicated that there was action taking place at the site where they conducted surveillance on Turner and his captors. Bond took that as a good sign that he and Q chose to come to DC, rather than waiting in London for the CIA spooks to decide what they were going to do with their asset.

Q emerged from the loo looking no more refreshed than he did when he went in.

“I need to sleep more,” Q announced, placing both hands, the casted one and the uncasted one at the small of his back and stretching.

He looked miserable. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and he was still unsteady on his feet. The Valium may have been a good idea to allow Q to sleep on the plane, but knowing now the effect that the tranquilizer and the alcohol had on him, Bond vowed that he would never suggest it again.

“Hey,” Q said, “Why is there only one bed?”

“What?” Bond asked. He had been so distracted by Q’s exhaustion and Felix’s plan for Alex Turner that he hadn’t noticed. He walked into the bedroom and surely enough only one queen-sized bed graced this room at the Marriott. “I’m calling the front desk.”

Bond picked up the phone for room service and complained to Chloe. “I specifically booked this room for two adults,” Bond said.

“I thought the queen was going to be a little tight for the two of you,” Chloe said. “Let me see if I have anything else available.”

Bond sighed and whispered to Q. “She thought we were a couple.”

Q collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Bond watched Q toe off his shoes and strip off his socks.

His dishevelled hair and adorable laugh made Bond smile. He decided that if the Quartermaster ever offered to share a bed, he would have a hard time refusing.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Chloe came back on the line. “We have nothing else available.” All our rooms are booked and until some of our housekeepers show up for work, there will be no other room I can put you in.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bond said.

“There’s the Trump International Hotel across the street,” Chloe said. “It’s a little more pricey, but they usually have vacancies, you know, with the state of the nation today. I can give them a call and see if they have a room, although it is a weird time of day for two guys to be looking for accommodations.”

Q turned down the duvet on the bed and began to unbuckle his belt.

“No, Q, don’t get comfortable, we’re not staying here,” Bond yelled as Q dropped his trousers to his ankles before stepping out of them

“Sod off, Bond,” Q said, removing his jumper. “I’m taking the bed now.”

“Shall I call the Trump and see if they have anything available?” Chloe asked.

Bond was torn. Should he try to get a room at the Trump, handing over money that he had earned in service to the Queen and all of England to the man who seemed destined to destroy all of humanity? Or could he suck it up and hope Q would leave room for him at the edge of the bed? He decided he’d take his chances with Q, who had stripped down to his TARDIS boxer shorts and a white undershirt.

“No Chloe, we’ll be fine in this room,” Bond said before hanging the phone and approaching the bed.

What could possibly go wrong?

~

Hundreds of miles away, Marston watched the scene play out through the surveillance cameras that were mounted in the warehouse. The MI6 cronies arrived as soon as Eve called them in, the threat secured. More than secured—dead was more like it. 

It was of little consequence, when considering the whole of Marston’s plan. Alex Turner’s technological breakthrough would be in their possession soon enough. And just in case it wasn’t, a seed had been planted that would ensure his cooperation.

A truth-telling algorithm wasn’t Marston’s only interest, although the lure of it proved impossible to resist. There were other _interests_ whose success tipped the scales of world domination. Some were as valuable and obscure as Alex Turner’s project. Mind control, memory mining, dream programming, to name a few.

Turner was naïve enough that they could program his dreams without too much difficulty. It was the one tool they could rely on that might make Turner finally cooperate and work for their side. If Turner thought his loved ones were threatened, maybe he’d cave. They had played nice for long enough, using MI6’s brainy Quartermaster as a lure to get Turner to cooperate. But it had been to no avail.

Tiny Alastair held Frances’ hand as they wandered through the aisles at Harrod’s. The outside of the landmark retailer was lit up so brightly against the night sky that Alastair was certain it would be seen from space.

Inside, there were more delights than a child could fathom. Ever obedient, Alastair patiently waited while Frances selected the items to be put away for Christmas.

“But what about today, Mummy?” young Alastair pleaded.

“Alastair, you must behave like a good little boy,” Frances said. “No more fussing, or we’ll go home straight away.”

“But Mummy,” Alastair cried. “I want you to buy me a toy.”

The other shoppers, especially the ones with children of their own, could empathise with Frances’ situation. 

“We can’t buy anything today, Alastair,” Frances said, taking his hand.

“But why not?” Alastair asked, his cheeks red from fussing.

“I’ve forgotten my chequebook,” Frances said. And with that, she led Alastair out of Harrod’s and back to their home where Alastair spent the rest of the afternoon working on his maths.

Marston had waited this long to control Turner’s invention. Frances Turner’s death was merely a minor setback.

~

Eve rushed to Danny as soon as she and Tanner made sure the scene was clear of any other threats.

“Call Six,” Eve directed Tanner, but he was already on it, mobile connecting with Mallory as Eve cut Danny free.

“Frances!” Danny shouted.

“We’ll take care of Frances, an ambulance is on the way,” Eve assured him.

“Oh, God,” Danny said, bringing his hands to his face.

“Listen to me,” Eve said, focussing her eyes on Danny’s to distract him from the dead bodies that littered the warehouse floor. “Do you have any identification?”

“I’m Danny, Danny Holt,” he said.

Eve thought Danny bore an uncanny resemblance to Q. She had never seen Holt before, except for in a grainy news story from some months back when his partner died. He had the same colouring as Q, with his green-flecked eyes and thick dark hair. His clothing lacked the style, if you could call it that, of the Quartermaster though. Bond certainly had no appreciation for Q’s hideous cardigans, his hipster trousers, and colourful socks, but Eve thought he’d hate the style of this ghetto-version of Q even more.

“Can I see some identification?” Eve persisted. “A drivers’ licence, perhaps.”

“I have it,” Danny said, reaching for his pocket.

“Hold it right there,” Tanner said.

Eve sighed. She knew Tanner was right. This poorly-dressed kid could very well be part of the operation, rather than a victim.

“Stand up slowly and Eve will get your wallet for you,” Tanner said, authoritatively.

Danny complied and struggled to his feet. Eve thought he looked woozy, but there was no telling how long he had been tied to the chair.

Eve plucked his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to Danny.

“It’s strange,” Danny said with a shaking voice, “they didn’t even want to rob me.”

“We’ll figure out what they were up to, Daniel, Daniel Holt,” Eve said, reading from the driver’s licence. “You can sit back down if you’d like, Danny. You’ve just been through a terrible ordeal.”

“What about Frances?” Danny asked, looking over Eve’s shoulder. “Is she dead?”

Eve looked over to see Tanner directing the newly-arrived medical personnel to where Frances laid, unresponsive.

“They’re going to look after her,” Eve said. “I’m sure they’ll do everything they can. What about you? Are you hurt?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Danny said. “They took me. I was visiting friends and when I left the Tube station, this girl….”

“There will be plenty of time to discuss what happened,” Eve said. She tried to be as comforting as possible to Danny. She knelt in front of him as he sat in the chair. She thought he could do with a hug, but she simply held his hands in her own instead. “I’m going to have to take you to our headquarters so you can help us with the investigation as to what happened here.”

“I’ll go with you,” Danny said, clutching her hands tighter. “You seem trustworthy.”

Eve smiled until she heard footsteps behind her. She turned as Tanner trotted up to her. He nodded at Danny, and lowered his voice to speak to Eve. “Mallory is putting Double-oh Five on this. This is a bigger operation than just these three would indicate,” he said, tipping his head to the three hoodlums that lay dead on the warehouse floor. “He wants Daniel Holt secured away, for the time being, at least. R is provisioning the location.”

Eve knew there could be eyes on Danny. If they tried to take him to the SIS building or if they simply decided he wasn’t wanted for questioning and let him go home, he could be the next innocent person killed.

Tanner’s mobile beeped. “You’re going to Pickwick 332,” he told Eve.

Eve nodded. “I’ll catch up with you later,” she said. “Danny, do you think you can walk out to my car?”

“I’ll be all right,” Danny said. He slowly got to his feet and wrapped his jacket around him.

Eve shielded his view from the worst of the carnage. Keeping her weapon drawn, she ushered Danny out to the street.

She helped Danny into the passenger’s seat of her car, got behind the wheel and buckled in. Satisfied that they weren’t being followed, Eve pulled away from the kerb and made her way through East London.

“Frances drove Scottie’s car there… it was Scottie’s car,” Danny corrected himself. “It’s mine now.”

“I’m sure Tanner will see to it that it gets back to you,” Eve said. “They may want to examine it for evidence so we can figure out who was responsible for your kidnapping.”

“And Frances’ death.”

“I’m sorry, Danny,” Eve said. She reached over the console to squeeze Danny’s hand.

“Frances wasn’t Alex’s real mother, you know,” Danny said.

“Yes, I think I heard that somewhere,” Eve said.

“I don’t think she loved Alex,” Danny said. “But she did want his killers brought to justice.”

“She probably wanted the best for him,” Eve said. “Even if you think she didn’t love him like a mother would.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Danny said, forcing a brief smile.

“You two were onto something,” Eve said. “Frances met with me and some of the MI6 staff. She was looking for help locating Alex. She said you had received some indication that he was alive?”

“At first,” Danny began. “I thought he was dead. I saw his body in a trunk.”

“That must have been very traumatic,” Eve said. 

Pickwick 332 was located close to MI6. Eve imagined that Mallory wanted Danny close by so they could interrogate him properly when the threats had been neutralized. How she wished that Bond and Q weren’t on their CIA holiday.

“But nothing made any sense. I mean, who would kill him?” Danny said. He struggled for words. “Alex was kind. And he was smart. Most of all, he was quiet. He had never gotten into any sort of trouble. Never in any trouble at all. Not in his whole life.”

“He sounds like a wonderful man,” Eve said. “I’m so sorry that you lost him.”

“Me too,” Danny said. “I only hope that maybe we can find him again one day.”

“We’re all going to do our best to make that happen. If it’s even a possibility, we will leave no stone unturned,” Eve said. “Do you like cats, Danny?”

“What?” Danny asked.

Eve couldn’t blame Danny for being lost in thought, but she had an idea that might cheer him up. 

“Cats. Furry little pets,” Eve said. “I have a friend who’s going to be gone for a few days and I promised him I’d check up on his two cats. He lives right over there. Would you like to come with?”

“Are you sure it’s not dangerous,” Danny asked. “What if they try to kidnap me again?”

Danny had a point, but Eve knew Q’s flat was under MI6’s watch. “It will just be for a moment,” Eve said, pulling up in front of Q’s terrace house.

“Should I wait out here?” Danny asked.

“I think it would be best if you stuck with me,” Eve said.

Eve nodded to the hidden security camera that recorded the entrance to Q’s flat. She punched her access code into the lock, scanned her fingerprint, looked into the optic device, and the door opened for her.

“Come on in,” she said, cocking her head so Danny would follow.

“Oh, look at her!” Danny said.

Pampuria mewled and descended the stairs to inspect the visitors.

“Pampuria,” Eve said, giving the cat a scratch under her chin. “It’s hard to believe it, but Pampuria once belonged to Ernst Stavro Blofeld, the head of SPECTRE a massive crime organization that MI6 took down last year.”

“That’s impossible,” Danny said, taking Pampuria into his arms. “What was a beauty like you doing with a bad man like that?”

Eve laughed. “She’s got a new owner now.” 

“One who’s on the right side of the law?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” Eve said. “In fact, she belongs to one of the MI6 Department Heads. He’s a good friend.”

“Boyfriend?” 

“Oh no, he doesn’t have a boyfriend, not yet at least.”

“I meant to ask if he was your boyfriend,” Danny said.

Eve snorted. “Oh goodness no!”

“I was just wondering,” Danny said. “What’s wrong with him? Is he an ugly bastard?”

Just then, Turing jumped onto the kitchen countertop. “Ahhh, here’s the other one,” Eve said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“Does he have big ears and crooked teeth?” Danny asked.

“Stop it,” Eve said. “In fact, he looks a lot like you.”

“Well, you’re a good friend for looking after his cats,” Danny said. He stroked Turing’s soft fur while Eve made sure the automatic feeder was operating properly.

“I think you’d like him,” Eve said. “Maybe you’ll get to meet him someday.”

Eve stopped in her tracks when she got to the back door of Q’s flat. The keypad to the lock dangled from its wiring and the guts of the device cascaded from the door handle to the floor. 

~


	8. Chapter 8

The sound of hotel guests arriving in the adjacent room awoke Bond from his slumber. He opened one eye and peered at the digital alarm clock. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Thank goodness for room-darkening shades and the gentle rain pattering against the window. They still had two hours before they needed to meet with Felix.

Bond relaxed into the mattress, but his thoughts of relaxation were short-lived. He soon realized that he had a warm bed partner. He wrapped his arms around the sleeping body, ready for some lazy kisses and quiet lovemaking.

Q?

Oh, shit.

Q responded to the warmth of Bond’s embrace by canting his hips so his arse bumped Bond’s erection.

Bond froze.

Q shifted where he slept, his body undulating into a more comfortable position. If he was bothered by his bedmate, he did nothing to indicate so.

Bond couldn’t tell what Q was doing with his hands. He buried his face in the nape of Q’s neck, while Q’s hands moved elsewhere beneath the covers and out of sight. He opened his mouth to breathe in Q’s scent, delighting in the way Q’s hair tickled his nose.

Q let out a soft moan and Bond felt him suddenly stop moving.

Bond held his breath. If he previously had any doubt as to whether Q was awake or not, the doubt evaporate when Q turned in his arms.

Bond finally exhaled when Q’s sleepy eyes took him in.

“Good morning,” Bond whispered, wishing he had taken a trip to the loo for a quick freshening up.

“You’re awake?” Q asked. Then, as if he became concerned with missing the meeting, he propped himself on one elbow briefly to check the time displayed on the clock.

“Plenty of time,” Bond said, although he wasn’t sure what they had plenty of time for.

Q collapsed back down into the warm bedding and Bond’s arms resumed their cuddling, his hands smoothing Q’s sleep-rumpled T-shirt over his back. Q stretched out against him, his cock hard on Bond’s thigh. It was almost as if the Quartermaster was made to fit in Bond’s arms.

“Do you think they’ll be able to find Alex?” Q asked. “Or are we wasting our time coming here?”

Bond reached up to twine his fingers in Q’s hair. It was just as soft as he always thought it would be. “I believe what Felix tells me. If he says they’re onto something, I don’t think he’s bluffing. He wouldn’t get me involved if his instincts didn’t tell him that Alex was still alive.”

“If there’s a chance that Alex is alive and we can get him free from his captors, we could be bringing him back to London with us,” Q said.

“He can sit next to you on the plane,” Bond said with a smile.

Q jabbed Bond in the ribs.

“Ow,” Bond said feigning his pain. Warmed by Q’s unexpected reaction to waking in bed together, Bond struggled for words. “Don’t forget that I promised to teach you to fight.”

“I won’t,” Q said.

Bond watched Q’s eyes flicker over his face.

“This is nice,” Q said, a faint blush coming to his cheeks.

“I’m honoured that you’re allowing it,” Bond said, lowering his lashes. “Quartermaster.”

Across the hall, a door opened and a couple left for sightseeing or dinner or both. The door closed hard, threatening to disrupt the mood. Bond heard the guests retry the handle to make sure the door was locked and then they were gone.

“Being kidnapped was most unpleasant,” Q said, seemingly out of nowhere. “It would be best for me to know how to take a few of them down.”

“You tried,” Bond said. His hand left Q’s hair to caress his fingertips where they poked out of the bright green cast.

“I only got hurt because I grew frustrated with them and I decided to fight, rather than follow their instructions,” Q said with a sigh of resignation. “It was hard to fight them, when they were being so nice to me.”

“Nice?” Bond asked. “How do you mean—nice?”

“I talked about it with psych, but they didn’t have any answers. They kept video-taping me. They gave me a script to read and they insisted that I say the things they wanted me to say.”

“What kinds of things were they?” Bond didn’t want to pry, but here they were half-naked in bed together. There was no time like the present for divulging that which was once hidden.

“They made me say that I was working with them,” Q said, “but they didn’t identify any of their names. The more I think about it, I think they could have been splicing the things I said into an editing program to convince Alex Turner that it was safe to share classified information with his captors.”

“This happened before we knew about the possibility of Turner being alive,” Bond affirmed.

“I didn’t really put it together until just now,” Q said with a nod. “You think my kidnapping and Turner’s faked death have something to do with each other.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” Bond said, glancing at the clock for the time.

“In a hurry to get out of bed?” Q asked.

“Quite the contrary,” Bond replied. To his surprise, Q gave a little thrust forward, catching Bond’s thigh with his cock.

A devilish grin that Bond had definitely never seen before crossed Q’s face.

“It can’t be easy for you, with a cast on your hand,” Bond said.

“I’m not like you,” Q said, his voice breathy. “I’ve managed to restrain myself for the past two weeks.”

“It’s a pity that you’ve suffered so,” Bond purred.

Q didn’t need any words to reply. Instead, he caught Bond’s hand and directed it downward beneath the covers where his cock strained against his boxers.

Bond didn’t need any further invitation. He freed his hand from Q’s grasp and slipped his fingers beneath Q’s waistband. For a moment, he tried to forget that Q’s boxers were covered with the image of a Police Call Box.

Q gasped as Bond took hold of Q’s cock.

“Oh,” Q said. “I—”

“Shhh,” Bond whispered. “Let me take care of you.”

Q threw his head back and Bond’s lips found his neck. How long had he imagined what it would feel like to press his lips to that long expanse of throat? The thoughts of doing so had filled his dreams far more often than he would care to admit. He darted out his tongue for a taste and decided that Q subsisted on tea so much that he had taken on the bergamot scent of Earl Grey.

“It’s been a… while…” Q gasped out.

“It won’t be much longer,” Bond whispered. He pulled Q onto him, something that was easy, considering Bond’s strength and Q’s slender build.

Q went with the motion, straddling Bond’s hips awkwardly. “Keep touching me,” he pleaded.

Bond adjusted his hold so he could massage Q’s arse with one hand while he stroked Q off with the other. It was a jumble of knobby knees and bent elbows, but it worked.

“W-w-wait,” Q said, and Bond obediently stopped moving.

Q reached for his own cock with his good hand. Bond felt Q’s fingers as they settled around the base and squeezed. If he had learned anything in his years of using his sexual prowess for the benefit of Queen and Country, it was that he should let Q decide what pleased him best in bed. He listened for Q’s response, as he continued to kiss every inch of Q that came within reach.

“Now do me,” Q said.

Bond was ever eager to please. “There?” Bond asked when Q seemed satisfied with the stroke of Bond’s hand on his cock. 

“Y… y… yes… Like... like… like… that,” Q said, finally managing to form the words.

Bond resumed stroking Q’s cock and squeezing the pert globes of Q’s arse. As Q writhed and moaned, he tried to delve his fingers into the valley between, but it wasn’t necessary. Q gasped and Bond felt the warm splash of his come as it spurted onto his thighs and dripped down his fingers. Q shuddered to a halt and gave a satisfied moan as he was milked dry.

Bond let go of Q’s cock, but he continued gently stroking Q’s arse while he brought himself off. He didn’t even mind that Q couldn’t offer a helping hand of his own.

Q rolled onto his back and they rested together, listening to the rain outside and the footsteps of other travellers as they walked down the hall. Doors opened and closed, but nothing could disturb the peaceful respite they found in the shared bed.

“Bond?” Q asked, after some time had passed.

“Mmmm?”

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

“Ten more minutes, then we need to get up to meet with Felix.”

~

Alex’s day started like any other. He did calisthenics for a half hour or so while he waited for his breakfast to be delivered. He lamented the fact that he hadn’t seen Spencer in more than a week. He told himself to remain calm about it. Spencer had been too bright to be caught helping him. But still, he worried that they had shared too much information, using bits of coded language and messages spelled out on a chess board. 

Alex’s worries increased as the minutes ticked by.

What if today, there was no visit from Spencer again?

It had been too long.

Alex practiced some yoga stretches, trying to ease his mind.

He assured himself that his captors were accustomed to changing the tasks that their staff performed each day. Alex was a mathematical genius and he had determined months ago that the staff rotation was completely random.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Spencer would get the box to Danny. Alex had pleaded with him. Well, he performed as much pleading as he felt safe conveying when video cameras rolled and recorded his every word and move. If Danny knew he was alive, he would think of something. He was Alex’s best hope for rescue.

Danny loved him.

As practical as Alex ever was, he believed that Danny’s love was real enough to spur him into action. He was clever enough to know he was alive from the clues he left behind.

Wasn’t he?

Alex fought back the tears that welled in his eyes. He refused to cry, just as he refused to give his captors any information about his project that they could use.

When Alex had all but given up hope, his guard let Spencer into the sparse room where Alex spent his days and nights. He carried a box that contained his breakfast. Alex sighed with relief.

Spencer took the seat across the table from Alex as always.

Alex knew that Spencer would wait, as he had done before, for Alex to consume the meal. Sometimes the box contained pancakes, sometimes scrambled eggs with a few burnt sausages, sometimes a strange sandwich that used a bagel in place of the bread. Today, the box contained a note that read, “GET DOWN.”

Alex looked up from the box and watched Spencer’s warm brown eyes fixed on his own.

Spencer’s mouth moved to utter the words, but no sound came out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Spencer dove across the table and tackled Alex to the floor. The sound of the explosion echoed through the room and down every hallway beyond. Bullets tore through the walls, and flew just on the edge of safety above Alex and Spencer’s heads.

Splintered wood and chunks of drywall fell to the floor and gasped up a dust that made Alex choke. He could hear Spencer, telling him to stay down. Alex could feel a bulletproof vest through Spencer’s standard button-down shirt. Whatever his profession was outside these four walls, it was not that of a lackey to Alex’s captors.

Movement at the far end of the room caught Alex’s eye. He watched as a dozen men, decked in American riot gear marched by with their machine guns at the ready.

“Are you all right,” Spencer asked cooly.

“I think so,” Alex said, shaking the cobwebs out of his head. To be honest, he didn’t know what has just happened.

“We still need to stay down,” Spencer said. “Just follow my lead and everything will be okay.”

Alex nodded in agreement.

The blast of mortars and firing of weapons could be heard in the distance. Alex couldn’t tell how far away the conflict raged.

After a minute or two of silence, a special operator decked in black entered the room. He meticulously checked every inch of the room before announcing, “All clear.”

His boots crunched the debris that had landed on the floor. He left the room and another man entered.

Spencer got to his feet and offered Alex a hand up.

“You’re safe now, Mr. Turner,” Spencer said.

Alex thought it was a bit strange. Spencer had never addressed him so formally before.

The well-dressed man with dark skin and a prominent widow’s peak stepped over the broken glass and greeted Spencer.

“You’ll want this, Spence,” he said, handing Spencer name badge that dangled from a lanyard.

“Thanks, Felix,” Spencer said, ducking his head through the loop.

Alex couldn’t help but notice that Spencer’s badge indicated that he was with the FBI.

“This is Felix Leiter,” Spencer said. “He’s with the CIA, but we’ve worked together for a while now.”

“And you must be Alex Turner,” Felix said, extending his hand. “You’ve got some friends in high places to get me out of bed this early in the morning.”

Alex’s heart was pounding wildly. He shook Felix’s hand. “What do you mean?” he asked, worried about which governmental entity these well-connected friends belonged to.

“MI6,” Felix said. “I owed a friend a favour.”

Alex knew enough to be wary of the MI5 agents, who he blamed for his kidnapping. He looked at Spencer questioningly.

“Mr. Turner,” Spencer said, “you’re going to need to be questioned and debriefed.”

Alex’s hands clenched into fists of frustration.

“Whoa there, big guy,” Felix said.

Spencer held his hands up, in an effort to placate Alex with the assurance that he meant no harm.

“Mr. Turner,” Spencer said. “You’ve been through a traumatic experience. We’re here to help you, I promise.”

Alex nodded. He thought it would be best if he didn’t say anything else. Although he had forged a friendship with Spencer, the tables had turned. He didn’t know whether to trust Spencer or not. He thought it best to err on the side of caution. For the first time in months, he felt like he was getting his wits about him again.

“I’ve got a meeting set up this afternoon with my contact from MI6,” Felix said. “Until then, you’re free to go.”

Alex heard what Leiter said, but it didn’t register. Where would he go? He barely knew what country he was in.

Spencer glanced at Felix. “I need to get back to the office to file my report, but I can see that Mr.—Alex needs some help. I’m sure my colleagues at the BAU would be willing to spend some time with him this afternoon.”

Felix checked the time on his watch.

“I can take Alex with me,” Spencer said. “He’ll be secure. And we’ll meet you in Langley at, say… four o’clock?”

“Suits me fine,” Felix said. He turned to Alex and said, “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Turner,” before walking out the door, the glass crunching under his feet.

Alex finally felt like he could breathe.

“I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with me for the day, kid,” Spencer said. “Let’s see what we can do first about getting some decent food into you.”

“What about Danny? Did you get my message to Danny?” Alex asked.

“Well, yes,” Spencer said. “But he didn’t have anything to do with your rescue. We’ve been working on our infiltration of SPECTRE for months.”

~

Q fought to keep his eyes off Bond as they waited for Felix to show up in the conference room at Langley. Of course Q had heard stories about Bond’s prowess in bed. He had even manned the comms plenty of times when Bond was on honeypot missions. He should have guessed that Bond would be a generous lover and attentive to his partner’s needs. After many months of avoiding Bond’s advances, he now wondered why he waited so long to see what the fuss was all about. Being on the receiving end of Bond’s affection wasn’t too intolerable, after all.

Part of Q wanted to bite down on the palm of his hand as he gushed over what happened between he and Bond. But the professional part of Q felt certain that he’d be able to maintain his working relationship with Bond while he outfitted him with weapons and communication devices for his missions. If they were to have a tryst behind the opaque windows of Q’s office, no one would be the wiser. Perhaps he’d begin work on an actual exploding pen when they got back to Q-Branch.

Bond’s mobile beeped. He let Q peer over his shoulder to see that it was Eve.

“Our apologies, we should have called you first, Moneypenny,” Bond asked.

“Pardon?” Eve asked.

“Alex Turner’s rescue,” Bond said. “Felix is meeting us here with an FBI agent and Turner, who’s now a free man. We didn’t even have to _do_ anything.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Q chimed in. “Some things got _done_.” He chuckled at his own joke.

Bond merely raised an eyebrow Q’s way.

“That’s terrific news,” Eve said.

“Everything went smoothly—in fact, much more smoothly than we imagined,” Bond said, resting his hand on Q’s thigh.

“I wish I could say you the same about us,” Eve said. “We’ve been busy. Danny Holt was kidnapped and Frances Turner is dead. And—”

“What happened?” Bond asked, taking his hand off Q’s thigh and sitting up straight.

“It appeared that Holt was kidnapped as part of a gang initiation and they planned to hold him for ransom,” Eve said. “He called Frances for money and she called me. Tanner and I rushed to the address where she was to meet the captors. We were too late.”

“What about Holt—?”

“He’s safe now,” Eve said. “Shaken up, but safe.”

“A gang initiation? Was Holt chosen at random?” Bond asked. “That doesn’t sound like it’s related to Alex Turner’s research.”

“There’s not much to go on. Right now, we think it was random, but we’ve got Double-oh Five working on it, as well as R and Tanner. If it is related to Turner, they’ll figure out how. And there’s more. Is Q listening?”

“I’m right here, Moneypenny,” Q said.

“Q, your flat was broken into.”

Q stiffened at the thought.

“Now, don’t be too alarmed, it doesn’t look like anything was taken. Everything looked pretty much the same way it did the last time I was there, except the lock was tampered with.”

“How could this happen?” Q asked, taking the mobile from Bond.

Bond put a hand on Q’s back and began to rub some of those soothing circles that you hear about in most fanfiction.

“And my cats—?”

“Your cats are safe,” Eve said. “In fact, I thought it best to bring them to the safehouse with Holt.”

“With him?” Q asked in disbelief. “How do we know that he won’t use them for his deranged sex games?”

“Listen to yourself, Q,” Eve said with exasperation. “You need to stop reading The Daily Mail. Your cats will be fine with Holt. He took a liking to them and they seemed to calm him down considerably. In light of all he’s been through, the least you can do is loan the cats to MI6 as comfort animals. Besides, we’re working our tails off investigating who broke into your flat in addition to this fiasco with Holt and Frances Turner.”

Q decided that Eve had a point. He wouldn’t want his cats left behind if they could be in danger. But Daniel Holt? Q had his worries.

Just then, Felix entered the room.

“Look, we need to go,” Q said. “We’ll talk about this more when we get back to London.”

Q handed the mobile back to Bond. His head was spinning. Had all that really happened in the span of a single day?

“James,” Felix greeted.

Bond stood and embraced Felix, saying, “It’s good to see you again.”

“You’re looking well-rested,” Felix said, clapping Bond on the shoulder. “A far cry from how you looked on the trip in Monaco.”

“Felix,” Bond said, “I’d like to introduce you the MI6’s newest Quartermaster, Q.”

“Q?” Felix chuckled. “You Brits are about as clever with your aliases as you are with your cooking.”

“Bond has told me a lot about you, Felix,” Q said, standing to shake Felix’s hand.

There was a soft knock on the door and Spencer entered with Alex Turner.

“Hi guys,” Spencer said. “If I may introduce Alex Turner to you. These men have done a lot to facilitate your rescue. This is Felix Leiter of the FBI.”

Leiter stepped forward and shook Alex’s hand.

Spencer continued the introductions, “Q of MI6, who I believe you’ve met before.”

“Good to see you again, Alex,” Q said, shaking Alex’s hand.

“And James Bond, also of MI6,” Spencer said.

“I’ve met you before,” Alex said, his mouth agape.

Q watched as Alex’s eyes darted from Bond to Q and back again.

“Have we? I don’t seem to recall,” Bond said.

Q looked at Bond, but his expression gave nothing away. 

After an uncomfortable pause, Spencer broke the silence. “The two gentlemen will be accompanying you back to London.”

“What about Danny?” Alex asked. “When can I see Danny?”

“We have some questions we’ll need answered before you can see Danny,” Bond said. “I can assure you that everything we do is in the interest of your safety.”

With that, Alex didn’t look relieved at all, Q noted. Fortunately, Spencer stepped in to quell Turner’s fear of MI officials.

“We’re still investigating the motives of your captors. The only thing for certain is that there’s an unsub who can explain all of this to us. And until we find who that unsub is, you’re better off in an agent’s hands,” Spencer said.

“MI6 has its own investigation underway. We hope to learn who was behind your capture and your removal from English soil,” Q said.

Spencer let his messenger bag drop off his shoulder. He reached inside and pulled out a folder. “Passport for Alex Turner and tickets to London, first class, courtesy of our Garcia,” Spencer said.

Q took the folder from Spencer.

“And our driver is waiting out front to take you to Dulles,” Spencer said.

“I can’t thank you enough, Spencer,” Alex said, offering him a handshake.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Spencer said, shaking Alex’s hand. “These two will take good care of you.”

“I need to get back to the office,” Felix told Spencer. He then turned to Bond and said, “Stay out of trouble, you old dog. You too, alphabet soup.” He pointed to Q as Bond laughed and clasped Felix’s shoulder before he left the conference room.

“I’ll walk you guys out,” Spencer said as he guided them to the waiting Land Rover with tinted glass.

They just had settled into their seats on the plane when Q overheard Bond whisper to Alex, “You had a fight with your boyfriend because he wanted you to see other people. I’d recognise you anywhere… Joe.”

~


	9. Chapter 9

Barbara slid the keycard into the slot and waited for the light to turn green. The instructions were simple enough. They had been printed out for her at MI6 and she had been required to memorize them. All four hundred and fifty-nine steps that she would need to complete to restock the room. She had already completed the first twenty steps.

Barbara had always had a photographic memory. Her ability to consume large amounts of information and recite it accurately never scored any points for her in school or with employers. At least it would prove useful to MI6.

Eve was kind to check in occasionally with her to see how her training was going, but other than that, Barbara took directions from Tanner. She remembered Tanner from when he ordered copious amounts of take-away carbs at Le Papillon. He was easy to get along with and she didn’t mind performing her tasks in the precise order, if it meant that Tanner didn’t regret hiring someone with limited experience in government service.

Besides, she saw to it that she passed the drug test and the security clearance.

Barbara stepped inside the hotel room, taking care to make sure she wasn’t followed. She had already disabled the security cameras and affixed her fake identification card to her uniform. And if anyone scanned the electronic employment records of the hotel’s housekeepers, the data would reveal that Barbara had worked there for two years, three months, and six days. 

Her MI6 training had been brief, but very thorough. It was a good job for Barbara, who had virtually no friends, unless you counted the anonymous pen pal with whom she shared her thoughts, and no social life beyond her own imagination. 

Barbara closed the door behind her and flipped on the lights. She didn’t flinch at the bloodstained sheets. Nor the tattered clothing that was scattered from one end of the room to the next. The medical kit had been torn open. So many of the objects that it contained at one time were now missing. She found the scissors shoved into the hole of the electrical socket. Barbara wondered what had transpired here that made the agent need to cut the power.

She donned a pair of latex gloves and began to go through her checklist of items to replenish, using her memorization skills to recall the components of the medical kit. Both suture kits were missing and there was nothing left of the paracetamol or the oxycodone.

Someone must have suffered here a bit, Barbara mused as she wiped the blood from around the drain in the shower. Under the bed, she found a jammed Glock 19, which she swiftly unjammed and unloaded before placing it in a plastic bag to take back to MI6. Unfortunately, when she checked beneath the other side of the bed, she found that one of her agents had vomited on the floor. She sighed and grabbed a roll of paper towels.

The agent who used this room must have been raised in a goddamn barn.

~

“I-can’t-believe-you-slept-with-him,” Q gasped out.

Q’s ankles were wrapped around Bond’s neck, his legs deliciously stretched over his shoulders.

The feeling of Bond’s rough strength holding him in place, keeping him pinned while he had his way with him was almost as good as the tightness of ropes against his pale skin. Almost.

Perhaps there would come a time when he would be bold enough to express his deepest desires to Bond, but this was not that time. Besides, Q had his doubts about what Bond would think if he asked to be tied up or properly restrained. Just the thought of being rendered immobile was enough to send Q’s orgasm crashing through him. But Q knew, from reading Bond’s file, that he had been horribly abused at the hands of Le Chiffre. Q certainly wouldn’t blame him if he thought much differently about a little bondage than Q did. Although Bond’s vanilla brand of seduction and romance wasn’t Q’s preferred lovemaking style, he had gone without for so long that he wouldn’t dare complain.

“I couldn’t help it,” Bond said as he thrusted into Q. “I must have a thing for mathematical geniuses. Who knew?”

“I hate you,” Q said, toes curling with pleasure. “I really… really… hate… oh, oh, yes, right there….”

Nearly a week had passed since they first started sleeping together on their trip to DC to rescue Alex Turner and they had been fucking daily ever since. It was a matter of self-care, Q told himself. Since he couldn’t masturbate effectively with the cast on his wrist, he simply accepted Bond’s offer of help.

Q’s skin itched beneath his cast. He looked forward to having the bloody thing cut off in another week’s time, but not if it meant losing Bond’s assistance in the form of a helping hand… and other parts of Bond’s body that proved equally useful.

Bond treated Q sweetly, bringing flowers to Q-Branch when he showed up on Friday night to take him to dinner. Double-oh Two still had no leads as to who broke into Q’s flat and it was deemed off-limits to Q. Q had volunteered to sleep in his office when they returned to London, but Bond would have none of it. On their first night back, after they got Alex settled in a safehouse of his own, Bond drove Q back to his sparsely furnished flat and they made love until Q realised that Bond had meant for him to spend the night.

Q couldn’t refuse. Bond’s bed was much more comfy than the second-hand cot that Q commandeered from medical to use in his office. Besides, his cats weren’t at his office either, and he would miss their company there just as much as he would miss them at Bond’s. Eve insisted that Pampuria and Turing stay with Danny Holt for their own safety, although Q didn’t quite understand Eve’s insistence that he not let the cats stay in his office in Q-Branch like normal. Eve pleaded with him, explaining the importance of pets in reducing a human’s stress level.

He couldn’t disagree with that. He had a big cat of his own to contend with. Bond curled around him to sleep and he regularly hunted down food for the pair of them to enjoy in Bond’s flat. It was a perfect arrangement, despite the lack of personal space.

“He was lonely,” Bond said as he tied off his condom and tossed it into the bin.

“What?’ Q asked, still blissed out from another round of fantastic sex with his own double-oh. 

“Alex Turner,” Bond said, crawling back onto the bed and covering Q from head to toe, a warm sheen of sweat the only thing separating their bodies. “He was lonely. Like you.”

A flush washed over Q as he lay there ensconced in Bond’s affectionate touches and caring gestures. He supposed it was true. And now he was overwhelmed with sadness at the realization that they could have been together all this time and he could have been spared the loneliness that drove him to work himself ragged month after month, year after year.

What had he been thinking?

Q’s mobile began to ring.

Q worked himself out from under Bond’s body to answer it, but he was too late.

“Q’s answering service,” Bond said, answering the call. “The Quartermaster is unavailable at this time. Please leave a message after the tone.”

“Give me my mobile, Bond,” Q yelled.

“Bond, you’re insane,” Eve said. “What have you done with Q?”

“He’s a complete arse!” Q shouted.

“He’s right here, but I’m not sure he’s able to come to the phone. He seems to be having difficulty walking these days.”

“TMI! You are horrible,” Eve said. “I can’t believe he’s putting up with your disgusting antics.”

“I do have my finer moments,” Bond said. “Let me see if he wants to speak to you.”

“So much for discretion,” Q said, after finally wrestling the mobile from Bond.

“Q?”

“Hello, Moneypenny,” Q said. “I do apologize for the company I’ve been keeping. Tell me, is there any way I can move back into my flat so I can get some actual sleep?”

“That’s what I’m calling about,” Eve said.

“The team has reviewed all of the footage from the cameras surrounding your flat. It’s not one hundred percent clear, but we think we have an image we can use. It’s only one still photo that the back-up caught when the cameras were being disabled.”

“Do you have the photograph… can you text it to me?” Q found it difficult to speak when Bond wrapped himself around Q and tackled him back into the bed.

“I’m afraid it’s not that concise,” Eve said. “The only thing we can glean from it right now is that the person who broke into your back door was a woman. She looked to be of average height and build. I’m sorry we don’t have more.”

“No, that’s all right,” Q said. “It’s a start, at least.”

“And that’s not all,” Eve said.

Bond must have been chilled because he grabbed the duvet and pulled it over the both of them.

“What else?” Q asked.

“The team found explosives planted in your flat.”

“What?”

“They were rigged behind the electrical sockets in your living room, your bedroom, your kitchen,” Eve said, her voice full of concern. “I’m afraid someone had it in for you.”

“Do you think it’s related to my kidnapping?” Q asked as he stuck his feet out from under the covers.

“I would assume so,” Eve said. “But until we find a connection, your flat is still off-limits.”

“Thank God you had the sense to get Pampuria and Turing out of there,” Q said, grateful for the same thing that he was bitching about earlier when he lamented the loss of their companionship. “And I’m so glad you weren’t hurt when you stopped by to check on them.”

“You miss them,” Eve said. “In fact, you’re not going to be without them for much longer.”

“Oh?”

“For one thing, you’re due back at work on Monday,” Eve reminded him.

Q needed no reminding. His mandatory two weeks leave was up. He supposed he would have been absolutely stir crazy for those days, if not for Bond’s distracting lips, and mouth, and tongue, which Bond reminded him about, even as he spoke on his mobile to Eve.

“And for another thing, we’re about to conclude the investigation into Danny’s kidnapping. He’s going to be released in a day or so.”

“Will he be able to go back to that posh residence he inherited?” Q asked.

“The very same,” Eve said.

“Well, I’m not going to let him take my cats with him!” Q insisted.

“No, of course not,” Eve said.

Q listened to her with scepticism. 

“Q? I understand your concerns. In fact, we’re done questioning him. Why don’t you pay him a visit. You know he’s at Pickwick 332.”

Q looked at Bond and raised his eyebrows. “I may just do that,” he said.

~

Danny had barely finished brushing Pampuria’s long floofy fur when there came a knock on the door. Fortunately, Eve had told him that the cats’ owner might stop by, so he was sure to make the cats look their best. He had benefited tremendously from their company during his time in the safehouse and he thought it would be appreciated by their owner. Between Frances’ murder and the knowledge that Alex was quite possibly still alive, he would have lost his sanity if not for being able to pet Q’s two cats for hours on end, whenever the mood struck him.

Being held in the MI6 safehouse was a bit like being in jail. Danny knew a thing or two about getting caught breaking the law and being incarcerated. His years of partying hard had shown him the inside of London’s scarier places. Since he met Alex, he had stayed away from recreational drugs that he had used to get high almost daily. There was no need for a high when he had Alex, the handsome investment banker, as his soul mate and life companion.

When everything changed on that awful night three months ago, he could have been tempted to turn to drugs again, but instead, he swore off the drugs for good. A drug-addled mind couldn’t make sense of what happened to Alex and Danny wanted to stay sharp in case they found a way to bring Alex’s killers to justice. He and Frances had a plan until last week, when their plan went to shit. What seemed like a good idea, bringing their concerns to MI6, seemed instead to be the start of when their plan went out of control. Now Danny wondered if anything had ever been under their control. 

He walked to the door and asked for the password. He thought the Dickensian passwords MI6 seemed to favour were funny.

Unfortunately, Jack Bunsby and Daniel Quilp were less amused by them when Danny answered the door. They were probably accustomed to such MI6-style shenanigans.

“Hello,” Danny said, extending his handshake. “Eve told me you were coming. I’m Danny, Danny Holt.”

Q pushed past Danny and knelt on the floor where Pampuria and Turing paced when they heard the door open. His messenger bag landed beside him.

Bond shook Danny’s hand and said, “Bond, James Bond. Don’t mind him. He’s a little stressed out about his cats.”

Danny turned toward Q and said, “Oh, I completely understand. It can’t have been easy for you to have been separated from them. They’re such lovely pets.”

He knelt on the floor beside Q and petted long strokes along Turing’s back.

“You’ve groomed them?” Q asked.

“Oh, yes,” Danny said. “They like to be brushed, so it’s pretty easy. Eve had brought over a basket of their cat supplies she found when they were searching your flat. I’ve got them right there.”

Danny reached behind the small loveseat-sized sofa that separated the sleeping area from the living area. This safehouse accommodation was more like a studio apartment than most, with a tiny kitchenette in one corner a table and chairs in the other. The loveseat divided the room in two and opened toward the sleeping area where a bed sat covered in colourful pillows.

Danny looked at Q and confirmed what Eve had told him before. He did look a lot like Danny. They could have been twins, except Q looked to be much younger.

“I’m Q, by the way. Thank you for taking such good care of the cats for me,” he said.

His voice sounded so sincere. In all Danny’s life, he had never heard such a tone of gratitude, except maybe from Alex.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Q,” Danny said, the single letter sounding strange to his ears. What sort of mess had he gotten himself into where people used passwords and names that were only a single character? 

Danny noticed that Q had stopped paying attention to the cats. Instead, he studied Danny from head to toe.

“Q?” Danny asked.

“It’s true what Eve said. “Do you see it, Bond?”

“The resemblance is uncanny,” Bond said.

Danny’s eyes met Q’s. Behind his glasses, they were the same hazel colour with green flecks that one could see only if you looked closely enough. They were kind, as Danny had been told once before. He had kind eyes, Alex had said. How Danny missed him.

Compared to himself, Q was beautiful. Danny admired his smooth skin, cleanly shaven, unlike Danny who had been living on safehouse handouts for days. His hair had a lustrous glow. It was artfully arranged with what Danny thought must be a lot of gel, but it still looked like it would be soft to touch. Q’s eyes lacked the wrinkles in the corners that Danny knew was from smoking cigarettes for so many years. Alex had suggested that Danny would be healthier of he tried to quit, but Danny could never quite manage it. When Alex… disappeared, Danny tried harder to stop. He was nearly successful.

Danny was embarrassed by how long he stared at Q. He began to laugh, something he often did when he was nervous.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said. “I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s all right,” Q said, clapping Danny’s shoulder.

“Oh, your hand,” Danny said taking Q’s cast in his hand and tracing his fingers over the bright green plaster. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” Q said with a laugh.

Danny let go of Q’s wrist and turned to Bond. He asked, “Do you know, I mean, I don’t expect that you can share too much information with me, but do you know when I might be able to see Alex?”

Danny wasn’t sure why he thought Bond would be able to give him more information than Q would. Or more information than Eve had already shared with him. Maybe it was the Savile Row suit and impeccable grooming- on a Saturday no less, that made Bond seem like he was a source of more official information than the two other MI6 people he had met.

“I’m sorry, Danny,” Bond said, “I can’t give you any information.”

So, it was true, Bond was part of the MI6 establishment that kept everything under wraps no matter how important the information was to Danny, Alex’s partner- the one person who suffered worse than anyone because of MI5, MI6, and the whole lot of them.

“Can’t? Or won’t?” Danny asked in frustration.

“Danny, it’s not like that,” Bond said.

Danny was furious. He glanced accusatorily at Q, then took a step toward Bond.

“Why won’t you tell me what you’ve found? What do I have to do to get information from you? Eve told me that you’re some kind of gay Casanova,” Danny yelled. As he took another step toward Bond, he grabbed the hem of his MI6 safehouse-issued shirt and pulled it over his head, displaying his bare chest. He went to untie his track bottoms, yelling, “Is this what you want?”

“Danny, no,” Q said, getting between Danny and Bond. “It’s not like that at all.”

Danny felt Q’s warm hand on his shoulder. It calmed him somewhat. He didn’t mean to get so worked up, nor did he mean to insult Bond with the insinuation that he held back information because he was a powerful MI6 official.

“I’m sorry,” Danny said, dressing himself in the safehouse shirt again. He flopped down on the loveseat to sulk. He always felt better when he could sulk a bit.

“It’s all right,” Q said. “You have every right to be upset.”

“I mean you no harm, Danny,” Bond said. “I simply can’t share more information with you until we’re sure it won’t put you or Alex in harm’s way any more than you already have been in harm’s way.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny said. “I understand.”

“Look,” Bond said, “Q would love to visit with his cats and I have some other business to attend to. Why don’t I leave Q here with you, Danny. I’ll pick him up in an hour or two.”

“Will you bring Danny and I some take-away when you come back?” Q asked.

Danny smiled at the thought. He was pretty sick of eating the Hot Pockets, which seemed to be the only edible food the safehouse refrigerator contained.

“Of course,” Bond said. “I’m sorry to upset you, Danny. Do you have any requests for what toppings you like on your pizza?”

“It’s me who should be apologizing,” Danny said. “Anything but anchovies is fine with me.”

“Very well, then,” Bond said.

Q looked a bit surprised when Bond kissed him on the lips and said, “I know you like sausage,” before he closed the safehouse door behind him.

“Danny,” Q said, sitting on the sofa beside him. “Forgive Bond. He’s been through a lot when he’s tried to protect the people he cares about. It’s hard for him to not come off at an arse.”

Danny nodded. “So, you know Alex is alive? Is he well?”

“We’re taking very good care of him. It won’t be long now.”

Pampuria twined between Q’s legs. Even Turing came out from beneath the loveseat when the yelling stopped. Danny reached down and picked Turing up, setting him on his lap for some petting.

“I know it’s not easy staying here,” Q said. “And I know all too well that the safehouse clothing leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Why is it all so itchy?” Danny asked.

Q laughed. “You even have sensitive skin like me. I’ll tell you what, I grabbed my overnight bag from my office before we stopped here. I’m sure I have some grooming supplies that I can spare.”

“Do you, really?” Danny asked. The thought of some moisturizer was like heaven.

“It’s the least I can offer you for grooming my cats,” Q said.

~


	10. Chapter 10

Alex stood in the hallway, waiting for Bond to remember the password.

“It was something like Bartleby the Scrivener,” Bond said.

“It’s incredible that you cannot remember something so simple as a Dickens’ character’s name,” Alex said.

“They’re based on our initials, that’s why I remembered Bartleby, but that’s not it.”

“From what novel is your code name?”

“I didn’t realise I was supposed to know that,” Bond said. “It’s not a popular one.”

The pizza boxes made Alex’s hand ache after a while. “Not popular,” he quipped. “How about Dombey and Son, not popular today, but that was the one that sealed Dickens’ reputation as a serial novelist.”

“That’s it,” Bond said. “It’s Bugsy… Jack Bugsy.”

“Busby, perhaps,” Alex said.

“You are very smart, aren’t you?” Bond said. He knocked on the door. “They probably would have smelled the pizza and let us in anyway,” he whispered.

“It’s Bunsby,” Q said, opening the door.

“I can’t fool you,” Bond said, pressing a kiss to Q’s lips. “And I have a surprise for Danny—proof that I’m not a complete arsehole.”

Alex couldn’t stand still in the hallway any longer. When Bond first explained his plan, Alex thought this might be a bad idea, surprising Danny like this. Danny had been through so many stressful experiences these past months, a less intelligent man would fear that Danny would have a heart attack when he saw Alex. But heart attacks do not work that way and although he smoked, Danny’s cholesterol was within a healthy range.

He handed the pizza boxes to Q and took three steps into the room.

Danny had been sitting on the loveseat petting Pampuria when Q answered the door. Now he stood in front of Alex with a hand covering his mouth as if to hold all of the emotion of the past months inside him, where they couldn’t escape out into the world because if they did, their force would be too strong for the world to survive and something would explode with the ferocity of a splitting atom.

“Danny?” Alex said.

Danny began to cry even before Alex embraced him.

Pampuria meowed fretfully.

“Danny….”

Alex could feel Danny’s hot tears as the rolled down his cheeks, soaking the shoulder of his MI6-issued safehouse T-shirt. His chest heaved up and down with the inability to control his emotion.

Finally, Alex found Danny’s lips and kissed him. He poured all of his soul into it and held back none of his feelings. It had been so long.

Q had to grab some tissues because both men were a sobbing mess. Even Bond had a tear in his eye.

“I went to your flat,” Danny whispered. “And you were gone.”

“I know,” Alex said, embracing Danny tighter. 

“I thought you were dead,” Danny cried.

“I’m so sorry. I had the feeling they were going to make a move against me. I knew too much, even too much for MI5. When I wouldn’t cooperate with them, they faked my death and brought me to America.”

“They lied to me,” Danny complained.

“They did, but you found the clue I left for you,” Alex said, leaning back and cupping Danny’s face with both hands. “Bond tells me that you figured out the cypher. I knew you were smart enough to figure it out.”

Alex covered Danny’s face with kisses.

“The six zeros and the one. My soul’s one mate.”

“Who knows?” Alex shrugged. “Maybe soulmates do exist after all.”

“You didn’t believe that soulmates existed before,” Danny sobbed.

“I know,” Alex said, because there was nothing else he could say. He knew that the romantic in Danny wanted to believe. Alex’s long ordeal and brush with death had taught him one thing if nothing else and that was if Danny wanted to believe, he should not interfere by pointing out the impossibility of Danny’s hypothesis. The hope that Danny had was enough to get Alex transported to London immediately after his rescue, instead of languishing in the American court system that the FBI was beholden to follow the strict rules that they employed.

“Before things get too intense,” Bond said. “I hope you two understand that we can’t leave you alone here.”

Alex’s mouth fell open.

Danny said, “You mean like for a more intimate reunion?”

Alex felt his face get hot when he realized Bond was talking about sex. Did that man ever think of anything else? Alex supposed he was fortunate that Bond propositioned him all those months ago when Danny had urged him to explore his sexuality with different partners. Those were still in the early days of Danny and Alex’s relationship. Of the few different beds Alex tried during that time, Bond’s was definitely the most memorable and satisfying—next to Danny’s, of course.

“There will be time for that soon,” Alex said, resting his hand on Danny’s chest.

“And we only have about an hour,” Bond said, checking his Omega.

“And the pizza is getting cold,” Q added, nodding at the boxes he had set down on the small counter in the kitchenette. Turing leaped onto the counter as soon as Q opened the first box. “With all these kidnappings taking place, I don’t want to be the one to explain to M that Bond took Alex from a MI6 safehouse.”

“All these kidnappings?” Danny asked. “I know about mine and Alex’s, but were there others?”

Q held his cast up.

“Oh, you didn’t tell me that before,” Danny said. “And that’s how you were hurt?”

“I put up a bit of a fight,” Q said, taking a slice of pizza from a box.

Alex thought Q sounded a bit proud for his actions. He could only imagine what it would be like to try to fight a man of Q’s build. Alex had lost much of his fitness level while he was held against his will, yet still he thought he could pin Q down in a matter of seconds without too much of a fuss from the MI6 Quartermaster. Foreshadowing, let me show it to you.

“How did you get Alex out of the safehouse to visit me?” Danny asked, grabbing a greasy slice of pizza and folding it in half to eat it. “Not that I’m complaining and not that you have to tell me any more of your top secret stuff.”

“It’s relatively simple matter to stop the security cameras from capturing new images,” Bond said. “And picking locks is the very first thing you’re taught as a MI6 agent.”

Bond looked at the pizza with disdain. Alex imagined that Bond would rather go hungry than eat any food that wasn’t Michelin starred.

Alex chose a slice of pizza from the box and joined Danny on the loveseat.

Bond sat on the floor with his back against the wall. “Why don’t you just bring the boxes over here,” he asked when Q went for another slice. “We haven’t got much time.”

Q took the boxes and waded his way around Pampuria and Turing who were ever curious about the boxes of cheesy pizza that had been brought into their domain. 

“Speaking of boxes,” Alex said, “did you get the clue I sent to you? It was carved into the bottom of a small cardboard box.”

“I did!” Danny said. “I have to tell you, it filled me with such hope to know that you were alive somewhere. It made me unstoppable in my search for you… well, on most days.”

“You must have had some dark times during this ordeal,” Q said.

“Some days, I didn’t know whether I would live or die, whether you would find me,” Alex said. “When another entity sought the technology I had developed. MI5 sold me out to them, with no regard for the importance of my research. It was called SPECTRE.”

“Unfortunately, we’re all too familiar with their organization,” Bond said.

“But I knew how important my research was. I told them nothing—not even when they tried to convince me that Q worked for them,” Alex said. “That’s when I took the chance to send you a message.”

Danny hugged Alex and rested his head on his shoulder. “It was worth it, though,” he said.

“I knew it would signal to you that I was alive and still thinking of you,” Alex said. “I trusted you, trusted that your love for me would give you the strength to keep trying to find me.”

“I was so shocked when the box was delivered to Scottie’s house,” Danny said. “How did you ever manage that?”

“Oh, you’ve never met Spencer,” Alex said, only just realizing that Danny had never met his ally. These past days had been a blur of activity with being rescued and brought back to London, then de-briefed by MI6, and held in the safehouse, and now with being reunited with Danny. It was a wonder he could make sense of it all. “Spencer was with the FBI and he had infiltrated my captor’s operation. We became good friends. I put a lot of trust in him and it paid off.”

“The box smelled like the ocean,” Danny said, crinkling his nose up. He was every bit as adorable as Alex remembered. He reached for Danny’s freshly-shaven face and traced his cheek with the back of his knuckles, just because he could. 

“I was held on an island in Chesapeake Bay. I could smell the ocean too, when I get some fresh air pumped into my room. And sometimes I thought I could hear seagulls outside. It didn’t surprise me to know I was near the water.”

When they had eaten their fill of pizza, Bond sat on the floor with Q’s head in his lap. They made a nice couple, Alex thought, as he watched Bond card his fingers through Q’s messy curls. Soon enough, he would be able to spend a day doing just such a thing to Danny. It would be a pleasant way to spend their time until they were ready to make love again.

Danny lifted his head from Alex’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry about Frances,” he said. “I meant to say something earlier.”

“Thank you, Danny,” Alex said. “Thank you for being a friend to her when she needed one.”

Danny hugged Alex tighter. “She had your best interests at heart, most of the time,” he said.

“I’m sorry that I’ll never see her again,” Alex said as he gently stroked Danny’s back. “She was like a mother to me, but not really. In some ways she was much more than a mother, but in some ways, she was the worst mother imaginable.”

“It’s complicated,” Danny said. “I understand.”

Bond’s mobile rang, and he said, “Uh,oh, I bet we’re in trouble now. It’s Eve.”

“Bond, where are you?” Eve asked, her voice clear in the quiet of the room.

“I’m somewhere _safe,_ ” he said with a wink. “Where are you? What are you wearing?”

“Knock it off, Bond,” Eve said. “There’s been an explosion at Q’s flat. Mallory wants you in his office at 7:00 AM tomorrow morning.

~

Eve showed Bond into Mallory’s office. He was a half-hour early and hadn’t had nearly enough caffeine yet, despite subjecting himself to a cup of Q’s Earl Grey when he dropped him off in Q-Branch before ascending in the lift to meet with Mallory.

“He’s in a conference with Director Wray,” Eve said. “There are more double-ohs on the way.”

“A double-oh convention, then?” Bond asked. “That can’t be good.”

Eve simply smiled and closed the door behind her.

It would be to no avail for Bond to worry about his job security at this point. Even if Mallory knew that he freed Alex from the safehouse for a visit with his lover, he wouldn’t call in the FBI about it, would he?

Maybe he would. The FBI worked hard to secure that asset from his captors. In any case, Bond would know more in about twenty minutes.

After bringing Alex back to the safehouse the night before, Bond drove Q to the site of his former flat. Both Eve and Double-oh Two were there, sifting through the rubble. The fire trucks and police cars had blocked the street off from travel and the area where Q’s flat once stood was an active scene of smoke, fire, and fury.

“Thank goodness, no one was killed,” Q said as he watched the firemen hose down the last of the hot spots.

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Bond said, wrapping Q in a warm embrace. 

“I’ll be all right, I think,” Q said, turning to Bond. “Thank God the cats are with Danny. Most of my important projects are in work or in the cloud. I’ll be able to rebuild whatever was lost.”

“But what about all your belongings?” Bond asked. “You had quite the cardigan collection.”

Q waved off Bond’s concern with his neon green cast. “It’s certainly sad, and I’m sure I’ll have many times ahead of me when I’ll mourn the loss of a certain pair of shoes or a favourite book, but those were just things… objects,” he said. “Growing up in the orphanage, I learned to detach myself from most material things. It’s a terrible loss, but it’s not the end of the world.”

Listening to Q’s evaluation of the things he lost in the explosion broke Bond’s heart. He vowed that he would make sure he helped Q re-build his hideous cardigan collection and then some.

“I know it’s small,” Bond said, “but you’re welcome to stay at my flat for as long as you’d like. I’m hardly there, except when I’m back from missions. I can make some room for you.”

“That would be lovely, Bond, just lovely,” Q said with a smile that seemed to forget the tragedy of losing his flat and all his belongings.

Bond was glad that he could offer Q some small measure of comfort on this awful night.

“Good to see you, Bond,” Eve had walked through the smoky haze to approach Bond.

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Eve said. “When the fire is out, I’m sure you’ll be able to salvage some things, although the smoke damage will make most of your possessions unusable.”

“Thanks, Eve,” Q said. “I’m glad you notified us right away. Do they have any idea who did this?”

“Double-oh Two has been working this case for a week now,” Eve said. “I just talked to him and he tells me that all of the explosives that the bomb squad found when they first searched your flat had been deactivated. They’re with forensics now.”

“I suppose they could have missed one,” Q said.

“Unfortunately, that’s all it takes,” Bond said. He noticed Double-oh Two with a few MI5 officials as they talked to the police. Double-oh Two, Tom Ellis, had been with MI6 for more than a decade. Bond liked him well enough. Tall, dark, and Welsh, he barely stood out in the site of destruction since he was clad in his trademark black suit.

“What are _they_ doing here?” Q asked.

“Who? Double-oh Two?” Eve jumped in.

“No,” Q said. “MI5. After what they did to Alex and Danny, I can’t stand the sight of them anymore.”

“Domestic investigation, love,” Eve said. “Shall I get rid of them?”

“Please,” Q said.

Eve left to talk with the crew from MI5. When she did, Double-oh Two trotted over to where Bond and Q watched the scene.

“Hey,” Ellis said. “I’m sorry about your flat, Quartermaster.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Q said. “Any new leads?”

“We’re getting close,” Ellis said. I’m supposed to meet with Mallory tomorrow morning to discuss the investigation after I meet with forensics.”

And that’s how Bond came to be sat beside Ellis in Mallory’s office while they waited for the others to arrive.

The door opened and Eve showed Double-oh Five into Mallory’s office.

“Gentlemen,” Double-oh Five greeted.

Double-oh Five, Corinna Moscatti, was a bear of a woman. Statuesque, and with as much muscle as fat, she once beat Bond in an arm wrestling match at the MI6 Christmas party. He’d stayed away from her as much as possible in the years that followed. She had been on mission in Germany before she was called in to help with the investigation into the gang that kidnapped Danny Holt and killed Frances Turner.

“Corinna,” Bond said with a nod.

“Hello darling,” Ellis made room on the leather sofa for Corinna to be seated.

“I suppose you heard there’s been a break in the investigation on the Holt kidnapping?” she asked, directing her attention to Bond.

Bond sat up straight. “I hadn’t. Do tell,” Bond said. “I’ve been doing my share of work on what happened to his partner.”

Just then, Mallory entered his office, right on time.

The agents stood while Mallory dropped the folder he was carrying onto the top of his desk. He took his seat in the tall leather chair. “Gentlemen, and lady,” he said.

The agents replied their mumbled good mornings before sitting with Mallory.

“Double-oh Three is finishing up our meeting with the FBI. She will be along momentarily. As you might expect, there has been some progress made on the cases you’ve been working.” Mallory said. He opened the folder.

Bond and the other agents listened attentively.

“Double-oh Two has received this report from forensics this morning,” Mallory said.

Ellis nodded in agreement.

“It seems the explosives used in the Quartermaster’s flat were produced in a chemical plant in Prague. The plant operates commercially, and it is owned by one Harom Hladik.”

Bond bristled at the name.

“Does anyone here, besides Double-oh Two, know Harom Hladik?”

Bond responded immediately. “It’s one of Blofeld’s aliases. He used it when he had dealings in Prague.”

“Very good,” Mallory said.

Just then, Eve showed Double-oh Three into Mallory’s office.

“Three,” Mallory said with a nod, “has been meeting with the FBI, regarding the Quartermaster’s kidnapping last month. We just attended a virtual meeting with them, where some new information came to light. Can you summarize for us?”

Double-oh Three, Andrea Wilsher, a communications specialist with severely short hair and the best scores of any double-oh on the target range, nodded to the other double-ohs.

“The recordings that the Quartermaster made while he was held have been located, in the U.S.” Wilsher said. “They were analysed by the FBI, who M and I just conferenced with because they were used to attempt to coerce Alex Turner into divulging critical information about his truth-telling research to his captors. By now, we all should know that Turner’s captors were part of SPECTRE, which, according to the men the FBI took into custody when Turner was freed, is still headed by Ernst Stavro Blofeld.”

Bond wasn’t surprised to learn that SPECTRE had its hand in the technology behind Turner’s research. And Q had insisted all along that his kidnappers were using him to get information from a third party, something that Turner had confirmed himself when he met Q the night before.

“But Blofeld is in prison,” Bond interjected. “How can he continue to lead SPECTRE when he is incarcerated?”

“But, wait,” Mallory said. “There’s more. Five?”

“It appears that the gang who kidnapped Holt and killed Frances Turner were part of an operation headed by one William Marston,” Moscatti said.

“I’ve heard that name before,’ Ellis said.

“It’s from the report on SPECTRE,” Bond said, remembering all too well every name on the list of operatives that he _met_ in Italy on a trip that ended with the Aston Martin in the Tiber.

“He was one of Blofeld’s accomplices,” Wilsher said.

“He was one of many, that were never brought to justice,” Bond added.

Just then, Mallory pulled another report from his folder. “It seems like he was involved in SPECTRE’s quest for information from Turner.”

“That’s why Danny Holt was kidnapped?” Bond asked.

“He was to be used as a pawn to get Turner to cave,” Wilsher said. “Just like they planned to do with Q.”

“And Frances showed up to help Danny, as expected,” Ellis said.

“Yes, and she was killed,” Mallory said. “Even more disturbing is the fact that Marston seems to appreciate the power of Turner’s research and he planned to use some of its mind-altering aspects to get Turner to divulge more information that provided to key to using it.”

“Marston is a gang lord,” Moscatti said. “He’s surely not capable of using high-level technology like that.”

“He has an accomplice,” Bond said. He didn’t like where this was going.

“SPECTRE,” Ellis said.

“Ernst Stavro Blofeld,” Moscatti said.

“But Blofeld is in prison,” Wilsher said, “How can he still be running SPECTRE?”

~

“It’s me, Daniel Quilp,” Q said. That morning, he had called to give Danny the good news that he could return to his beautiful home on Hampstead Heath. Q had planned to use his lunch hour to collect Pampuria and Turing. He’d bring them to his office in Q-Branch, which was a little more like a home to them than a safehouse. He could hear Danny moving around inside the small studio flat.

“Daniel Quilp?” Danny said, “Come right in.”

“I didn’t know if you still expected us to use the code names,” Q said with a laugh. “You’re a free man, now.”

“From now on, I’ll be Daniel, and you can be Q,” Danny said. “But you can call me Danny.”

“That will be fine with us,” Q said, giving Danny a warm hug.

“Us?” Danny asked, looking to see if anyone stood behind Q. “Is Bond with you?”

“No, he had business back at Six. It seems like they’re ready to solve the mystery of our kidnappings,” Q said.

Pampuria stretched on the loveseat. She looked like she had just awoken from a catnap.

“Yes, Miss Moneypenny called me this morning to bring me up to speed,” Danny said. “I’m so sorry to hear about your flat. If there’s anything I can do, I mean, if you need a place to stay, I have that big house with more rooms than I know what to do with.”

“That’s very kind of you, Danny,” Q said. “I’ll be sure to let you know if I decide to take you up on the offer.”

“Well, make yourself at home here, for a few minutes at least,” Danny said. “I’m sure you know, but according to Moneypenny, it seems like the case has blown wide open.”

“That’s true,” Q said, bending down to pet Turing. He was surprised that Danny seemed like a close friend to him, although they had only met the night before. He already knew so much about him. And they shared the love of his cats. He hoped he wasn’t presumptuous when it came to sharing more information about their respective cases with him. “Sadly, we think that one man is behind the whole thing.”

“Blofeld,” Danny said. “I heard. He’s the same guy who wreaked all kinds of havoc for Bond last year.”

“He’s in prison now, but apparently he’s still managing SPECTRE operations somehow. Sadly enough, Bond was a sort of foster brother to him. Blofeld’s father took Bond in when his parents were killed,” Q said.

“Ugh,” Danny grumbled. “I know a thing or two about shitty family relations.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Q said. “But now you can start your own family with Alex,” Q said brightly.

“I can’t wait. Can I offer you a cuppa? I was just getting ready to make one myself,” Danny said.

“That would be lovely,” Q said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night and I could use another dose of caffeine.”

“I’ve been tidying up the flat,” Danny said as he set the pot to boil. “Not that there’s much for me to pack to bring home. I hardly have anything of mine here.”

“You must be looking forward to getting home,” Q said. He made himself comfortable on the loveseat while Danny fixed their tea.

“Yes, and I hope Alex will be willing to move there with me when he’s cleared by MI6,” Danny said. 

“You must have missed him terribly,” Q said.

Danny brought the Styrofoam cups of tea over to the loveseat and sat beside Q.

“Our lives were so simple. One minute we had plans to go away for the weekend, the next, he was dead, killed by MI5, or so I thought,” Danny said. “They’re still trying to figure who at MI5 let SPECTRE take him. Until they figure that out, I think Alex will have to stay under lock and key.”

“Sometimes, it’s simply a matter of offering the right bribe at the right time,” Q said, taking a sip of tea.

“Some people will do anything to get what they want, no matter how many people they hurt along the way,” Danny said.

“And without regard for the consequences,” Q said.

“Such fancy talk,” Danny said. “You didn’t grow up in East London, did you?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Q said with a laugh. “I must sound like a pretentious arse to you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Danny said. “I like you just the way you are. You remind me of Alex with his fancy grown-up talk.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Q said.

“It is,” Danny said, reaching out to pet Pampuria who had settled on the arm of the loveseat. “I hope that we’ll be able to be good friends when this is all over.”

“Me too,” Q said.

The thought that he and Bond could be friends with Danny and Alex made Q feel warm all over. Q didn’t have much time for friends since he spent long hours at MI6. The only people he socialized with outside of work were the same people from work, Moneypenny, R, Tanner, sometimes Bond and the other double-ohs.

It would be amazing to learn some things from Alex, who was purportedly one of the most brilliant minds in all of Britain. And Danny seemed like he’d be a lot of fun to hang out with. Perhaps he’d make Q relax and not be so uptight about things that were beyond his control.

“How long have you and Bond been together?” Danny asked, sipping his tea.

“Not very long,” Q said with a smile.

“He’s quite a catch,” Danny said.

“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Q asked. He could hardly believe his words. When had Q ever dished about a hot double-oh with a complete stranger? It felt good.

“And, hey, thanks for helping me look good for when he brought Alex by,” Danny said.

“You would have looked good to Alex if you were wearing rags and sporting three days of stubble,” Q said.

“Did you know he was going to bring Alex to me?” Danny asked, his eyes glittering with joy.

“I didn’t,” Q said. “I was as surprised as you were.”

Pampuria’s ears suddenly went back.

Danny and Q were startled to hear a beep as the door of the safehouse flat opened and a woman stepped inside.

“Excuse me,” Danny said. “I think you have the wrong room.”

“Oh, no,” Barbara said. “if there’s anything I know, it’s my room numbers. It’s you two who don’t belong here.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Q said. “I’m here to pick up my cats, but Danny has this room until this evening at the earliest.”

“If I may,” Danny began. “Actually, I told Eve that I’d be out by noon. But then you called and said you would come by for the cats during your lunch, so here we are.”

Q looked Barbara up and down. “Aren’t you the waitress from Le Papillon?”

“I used to be,” Barbara said. “I got a promotion.”

At first, Q assumed the promotion was to the position of housekeeper for the hotel chain, but then it dawned on him that Barbara was the MI6 safehouse caretaker. It was a strange thought, but it seemed to fit.

“Miss, I’m pretty sure that we are not supposed to be here at the same time as you,” Q said.

“You can call me Barbara, Barbara Bradford. Don’t you remember me from Ingmar’s restaurant?” 

Barbara wandered into the loo. Q could hear her opening and closing the cabinets and the drawers.

Danny shrugged at Q.

“I do,” Q said, eyeing Danny. He was at a loss for what to say. He assured Danny, saying, “This usually doesn’t work this way.”

“Well, Barbara,” Danny said. “You’ll be happy to know that I tidied up a bit for you. There shouldn’t be too much for you to do. In fact, Mr… er… Quilp and I were just leaving.”

“On the contrary,” Barbara said. She marched into the living area with her hands on her hips. “You used nearly every article of clothing while you were here. And all the toiletries. Those things cost money to replace, you know.”

“Okay,” Danny said holding his hands up in surrender. “Next time, I’ll be more conscientious.”

“See that you do,” Barbara said, wandering about the flat. Suddenly, she shouted, “Oh my God!”

“What?” Danny asked.

“Oh my God!”

“What is it?” Q asked, rushing to Barbara’s side. There was nothing to see, except Pampuria twining around her feet.

“It’s her,” Barbara said.

Q didn’t see anyone. “Who?” he asked.

“This is my boyfriend’s cat,” Barbara said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Danny said. “This is Q… uh… Mr. Quilp’s cat. I’ve been looking after it for him.”

“Nonsense!” Barbara yelled.

Danny tilted his head toward Q and whispered conspiratorially, “You didn’t steal the cat, did you?”

“Of course not,” Q said. “Pampuria was given to me by a close friend.”

“Believe me,” Barbara said. “I know my cat breeds better than anyone. This is a silver shaded Persian. By the look of her head shape, she’s most likely from Wyndecreste Persians in London. I’d guess that her dam was Wyndecreste’s Sweet Pea, who had three litters of four, each of which went on to become Cat Fanciers’ Association Grand Champions. Her sire was definitely Wyndecreste’s Silver Snow, which I can tell because of the shading on the tips of this cat’s ears. I know this is my boyfriend’s cat!”

“This is impossible,” Q said throwing his hands in the air.

“Look,” Danny said. “Q… eh… Mr. Q… has had this cat for a long time. How long has your boyfriend’s cat been missing?”

The room suddenly went quiet.

Barbara stammered, “I… I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“Here’s my mobile,” Danny said, handing it off to Barbara. “Give him a call and we’ll find out.”

“I have my own mobile, thank you very much,” Barbara said. “But I can’t call him.”

“Well, why not?” Q asked.

“I’ll show you pictures of his cat. He sent them to me. I scanned them in,” Barbara said, reaching into her pocket for her mobile.

“You scanned them in? Why? You’ve never seen the cat in person?” Danny asked.

“He sent me photographs of his cat in the mail,” Barbara said.

“That’s weird. How long has this fellow been your boyfriend?” Danny asked.

Barbara scrolled through the photos until she found the images of the cat. “Here she is.”

Q took the phone from Barbara and examined the photos of the cat. His jaw nearly dropped. Pampuria resembled Barbara’s boyfriend’s missing cat even more than Q resembled Danny. Q handed the phone to Danny so he could have a look.

“Where is your boyfriend now?” Danny asked, glancing at the photos before focusing his eyes on Barbara.

“I can’t tell you… We write to each other. He’s more like a pen pal sort of boyfriend,” Barbara said.

Q briefly wondered how they had sex, but Danny’s level head prevailed.

“Where has he gone, that you can’t call him?” Danny persisted.

“He’s a good person, I swear,” Barbara said. “He got into some trouble with parking tickets and he….” Barbara began to weep.

“He’s in jail, isn’t he?” Danny asked.

Barbara nodded her head.

“He writes you letters from jail, does he?” Danny asked. “As part of a prisoner pen pal scheme I suppose? Q, Pampuria was Blofeld’s cat. This is how Blofeld is directing operations for SPECTRE. And Barbara is his accomplice.”

Q clapped Danny on the back. He could kiss him right now. “I’m calling Mallory,” Q said.

“I’ve said too much,” Barbara said, all flustered. She ran for the door, but Danny stopped her.

“Moneypenny, put me through directly to M,” Q barked into his mobile.

“No!” Barbara yelled. “You have no right to keep me here!”

Q waited for Mallory to pick up, but he couldn’t hear from all the commotion with Barbara punching and kicking Danny as he tried to prevent her escape.

“You can’t stop me from leaving!” Barbara shouted.

Barbara landed one good kick to Danny’s balls and he collapsed to the floor. Q dropped the mobile and rushed to help him.

“Don’t let her get away!” Danny cried out.

Barbara struggled with the door handle and Q used the best weapon he had.

It wasn’t his right fist.

He raised his left hand and brought the bright green cast down on Barbara’s head. A sickening _crack_ pierced the air before Barbara fell to the ground with a thud.

~


	11. Chapter 11

One week later…

“And that’s how we discovered how Blofeld was communicating to his allies within the SPECTRE organization that he still, apparently, led,” Mallory said.

“It was actually Danny that discovered it,” Q whispered to Bond. He was perturbed that Danny didn’t get the credit he was due. 

“Mallory is not likely to give credit to an outsider,” Bond said with a shake of his head. “It’s water under the bridge now.”

The gathering of officials from MI5, MI6, and the PM’s office filled the conference room. Everyone wanted to hear about the loophole in the UK’s Prison Pen Pal scheme that allowed Blofeld to communicate with the world outside his prison cell. Q knew more than any of the attendees about the status of the investigations around Blofeld. He didn’t think he would hear anything new that would surprise him. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Miss Moneypenny has assembled a presentation that will outline the facts, now that we believe we have all of them,” Mallory said. He left the podium and Moneypenny took his place.

“The Prison Pen Pal website makes it clear,” Moneypenny said, advancing the slide. She read from her tablet that coordinated with the Powerpoint presentation that displayed on the screen behind her, “Whilst they have done wrong, they also tend to be people who are cut off from family and friends.”

“Now, I wonder why that might be?” Bond whispered.

From behind Q and Bond, Double-oh Two sighed loudly.

Q pinched Bond’s arm. His fingers worked fine after getting his cast removed, but a little practice with them couldn’t hurt.

“Unfortunately,” Moneypenny continued, “while all mail entering the prison is read and thoroughly evaluated, this is not true for the mail that a prisoner sends.”

A grumble of disagreement emerged from the conference attendees.

“Until today,” Moneypenny said.

A smattering of applause welcomed her words.

“Ernst Stavro Blofeld has been in prison since he was convicted for committing crimes against humanity,” Moneypenny said. “He has been held in solitary confinement for the past eight months, but through the UK Prison Pen Pals scheme, he was assigned a pen pal with whom he communicated almost daily.”

“How did he get her to comply with his goals for SPECTRE?” Tim Gleason, from MI5, asked.

“Good question, Tim. We like to think that most citizens wouldn’t break the law simply because a stranger asked them to do so, right?” Moneypenny said.

A murmur of agreement cascaded through the room.

“How did he do it?” Moneypenny asked rhetorically before advancing her presentation to the next slide. “He groomed an unsuspecting woman, Barbara Bradford, who was only looking for companionship. When he established that he could trust this woman, he gauged her loyalty by having her perform a series of tests.”

“Do we know the extent of these preliminary tests that he used to groom her?” Double-oh Eight asked.

“We do,” Moneypenny said. She advanced the slide on the presentation and Q was surprised to see a photograph of himself. It was an enlarged version of his MI6 identification badge. That certainly made him sit up straight.

“You recognise the MI6 Quartermaster, who we all know and love,” Moneypenny said with an affectionate smile. A patter of laughter wafted through the room.

“Some more than others,” Bond whispered.

“Mr. Blofeld’s accomplice posed as a waitress in Le Papillon,” Moneypenny continued. “On one night when the Quartermaster visited Le Papillon, she used a veterinary tranquilizer to contaminate the Quartermaster’s beverage.”

Q’s mouth fell open.

“You didn’t know?” Double-oh Five asked.

“I knew I felt odd,” Q said. He whispered to Bond, “I’m so sorry, I blamed you for that.”

Bond entwined his fingers with Q’s. Q didn’t mind, since no one could see what was happening in the darkened room.

“But rest assured, Q wasn’t the only MI6 official that Blofeld fooled by Miss Bradford’s innocent demeanour,” Eve continue. “As directed by Mr. Blofeld, Miss Bradford lied to me about losing her job as a waitress at Le Papillon. I empathised with her and secured employment for her with MI6. For that, I take full responsibility.”

“I bet there’ll be some changes in the HR department after that,” Double-oh Two said.

Q snorted.

“We are aware that Blofeld used Miss Bradford to play with us like a cat who torments its prey before it strikes,” Moneypenny continued. “When Blofeld felt that he could trust her, in all things, he used her to pass his directions to his allies. He was able to manage the business of SPECTRE as if he had never left the confines of his Moroccan headquarters.”

“What’s to become of Miss Bradford?” Double-oh Five asked.

“Well, she is no longer employed by MI6,” Moneypenny said, “we are currently weighing the charges against her while we decide whether to prosecute and to what extent she was to blame in the numerous incidents surrounding this situation. And now, I’ll turn the podium back over to M.

Q applauded Moneypenny’s presentation with the rest of the crowd. He was haunted by the fact that he was drugged without his knowledge. Recalling the events of that night and the following morning, he was grateful that the drug wasn’t something more dangerous. If Bond was owed further apology for his accusation, Q knew just how to make it up to him. Q fought to get his mind off Bond’s sexy body and back to the present where he could absorb the information Mallory shared.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny,” Mallory said. He moved to take his place at the podium, but not before the assembled agents and officials gave Moneypenny another round of applause.

At the microphone, Mallory continued, “Further investigation has lead us to forge an alliance with the FBI to find one Mr. Alex Turner, a mastermind of MI5 who had developed sensitive new technology before he was abducted and later presumed dead. Turner was in the beginning stages of publishing his research, when MI5 took him to a secure location to continue its development.”

“That’s a lie,” Q said.

Bond tightened his hold on Q’s hand.

“It was there, in the U.S., that Turner’s research was acquired by SPECTRE, which was headed by Mr. Blofeld, as before, despite his incarceration. Fortunately, thanks to undercover work by Detective Spencer Reid of the FBI, and Mr. Turner himself, who refused to cooperate with his captors, Mr. Turner is now back on English soil. Mr. Blofeld went to extraordinary means to obtain Mr. Turner’s cooperation, including the kidnapping of the MI6 Quartermaster, and using a SPECTRE affiliate, William Marston, to threaten Mr. Turner’s partner, Danny Holt, and his adoptive mother, Frances Turner. I’m here to confirm that what you may have heard is true. This threatening led to Mrs. Turner’s death.”

“That’s a lot of kidnapping, just to get this one fellow to cooperate,” Double-oh Two said as he nudged the back of Q’s chair. 

“That should give you some indication of the importance of his research,” Q turned his head and whispered back to him.

“Later, Mr. Blofeld guided Miss Bradford to break into a MI6 department head’s flat to plant explosives.,” Mallory said.

“That’s me, too,” Q said squeezing Bond’s hand.

“We suspect he did this to convince the Quartermaster that he should cooperate with their plan to get Mr. Turner to share his research with them,” Mallory said. “And now, if there are any further questions—”

“Why did MI5 sell Alex out to SPECTRE?” Bill McCarthy, of the FBI, asked.

“It has recently come to light that there was a faction within MI5 who were still loyal to Max Denbigh, of last year’s Nine Eyes debacle. The members of this faction have been identified and they now await prosecution for their involvement in Mr. Turner’s kidnapping. I can say no more about that at this time, but I’m sure we’ll be meeting soon with regard to the investigation as it wraps up. If there aren’t any more questions, I’m going to bring the meeting to a close.”

Q let go of Bond’s hand as people began moving about to exit the conference room and get back to work.

“Have you heard enough?” Bond asked as he waited in line behind Q.

“Plenty,” Q said with a yawn.

“Are you planning to go over to the house after work?” Bond asked.

“I was going to, if you were going,” Q said.

“I’ll meet you there at five,” Bond said. “The rumour is that Alex will be making homemade lasagne.”

~

One month later…

Bond looked up from his newspaper when he heard Q close the bedroom door behind him. He had been in there for an hour, talking to Danny, trying to make him see reason.

In the hallway, Alex stood with his back against the wall. His head hung low.

Beside the sofa, Bond’s coffee had grown cold long ago. The newspaper shielded his face from his lovers. He had given up the tendency to school his reactions around the three men with whom he made his home, the three men who his life revolved around now that he had immersed himself in their world.

With a flicker hope in his eyes, Alex looked at Q, but Q only shrugged.

It was time to put an end to this nonsense. Bond cleared his throat and folded his newspaper. He buttoned his jacket, adjusted his cuffs, and strode across the Persian carpet to where Alex had resumed his sulking. “Come on,” he said. “We’re going for a walk.”

Q raised his eyebrows as he watched Alex go to the closet to grab a coat.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Q whispered to Bond.

Bond pulled Q in for a kiss. “I know how to make up properly with you after a spat, don’t I?”

Q smiled. “This is more than a spat,” he said, smoothing the lapels of Bond’s jacket.

“Sitrep?” Bond asked, nudging Q’s chin with his finger.

“Danny is terrified that he’s going to lose Alex some day. And I don’t mean like what happened when MI5 kidnapped him and sent him to the U.S. We got him out of that mess, thank God,” Q said as he peered around the corner to check on Alex.

Bond followed Q’s eyes and watched Alex work to push one arm through the sleeve of his coat, while the other sleeve draped loosely around his shoulder. It was an unfortunate accident on the firing range, of all places. Alex was grazed by a bullet. Nothing serious, but he had to keep his arm in a sling while the wound healed and the damaged muscle rebuilt. He’d be as good as new in a few weeks’ time.

“And I don’t mean what happened on the firing range, although that’s a good place to start. It’s that Danny’s worried Alex is going to be killed if he accepts Mallory’s offer to work in the field,” Q said. “And this little incident has done nothing to calm him about Alex working for MI6. I feel terrible for both of them.”

“We all feel badly about it, but sometimes accidents happen,” Bond said.

“Yes, but Alex is clearly taking it worse than you or I.”

“Leave Alex to me,” Bond said stepping back from Q.

“I hope you have better luck than I’ve had with this one,” Q said, nodding toward the closed bedroom door.

“We’ll be back soon,” Bond said, guiding Alex past the marble sculptures and out Scottie’s front door.

Bond knew they wouldn’t walk very far. There was something strange about how having an arm in a sling made it difficult to walk. Bond had experienced such a phenomenon firsthand on occasions too numerous to count. The green grass that blanketed Hampstead Heath crunched underfoot as it glistened with the first frost of the year.

“Where’s your head at?” Bond asked Alex. He was never one to mince words.

Alex carefully watched his footing, the injured arm like an albatross he was destined to bear.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” Alex said, stopping where they stood at the edge of the pond. “After nearly dying at the hands of the evil forces in this world, I’m more determined than ever to eradicate such people from our lives. I can best do that if I work for MI6.”

“Oh, to be young again,” Bond said with a smile. It never failed to surprise him how young and naïve Alex still was.

“I’m sure I’ll become a jaded old dog like you soon enough,” Alex said.

Bond began to walk again, saying, “If you’re lucky.”

Alex smiled.

Bond put his hands in his pockets. The chilly air made a fog rise from the pond. A half dozen ducks gathered along the edge of the water where the ice refused to form. The next time he came to the pond, Bond would be sure to bring some bread to feed them.

“I’m sorry you were injured,” Bond said.

“It’s not your fault,” Alex said. “It could have happened to anyone.”

“We’re all to blame, though,” Bond said. “I wasn’t fast enough to protect you.”

“Q was there, too,” Alex said.

“And he wasn’t fast enough.”

“I wasn’t skilled enough to realize that last bullet was stuck in the chamber,” Alex said.

“These things happen from time to time,” Bond said. He began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Alex asked.

Bond stopped and turned to Alex. “None of us are concerned about your injury. We know you’ll heal. We know your arm will be perfect in a few weeks. We know that we’ll all be more careful at the firing range,” he said. “But we’re more concerned about upsetting Danny than anything else.”

Alex laughed with understanding. “He’s like that, isn’t he?”

“He’s not happy, unless he’s fussing over us,” Bond said.

“You have a point,” Alex said.

“Danny has a good point,” Bond said. “It took so long for you to get back to him. He realised what his life would be like without you and he’s terrified that something would happen to you that would separate you from him again. And now, from us again.”

Alex nodded in agreement. “He’s worried about something happening to any of us in the field. He’d be alone again. And this thing,” Alex gestured toward the house, to Bond, and to himself, “this thing we have going on between the four of us. It’s like a family, the only kind of family Danny ever wanted.”

Bond smiled at the memory of how the four of them had fallen into this easy routine. After Q’s flat exploded, Danny had offered him a place to stay. Bond’s flat was too small for the two of them as Q began to rebuild his cardigan collection and acquire his other ridiculous fashions. Alex had not only been released from MI6’s custody, but Bond had been assigned as his bodyguard and M had offered him the opportunity to train as a field agent.

Scottie’s house had stood vacant for only a month after his death. Bond had never met the man, but he thought he’d be pleased to know that the four of them had put each of the sprawling home’s rooms to good use.

“Danny’s the only member of the family who’s not with MI6,” Bond mused as they followed the path through the frozen meadow.

“Perhaps if we got him more involved, he’d understand the difference between the real dangers we could face and the minor dangers—like a sore arm from a bullet’s graze,” Alex said.

“He’d understand that some things aren’t important enough to fight about,” Bond said.

“I think he likes fighting with me because it makes him feel better about fucking Q,” Alex said.

Bond chuckled. “Whatever you say, Joe.”

When they arrived back at the house, Q and Danny were bundled up in their winter coats and heading out to the car.

“Where are you two off to?” Bond asked.

Q kissed Bond and excitedly said, “I going to bring Danny over to Q-Branch so I can inject him with Smartblood.”

Bond didn’t even begin to wonder whether this was an official procedure or not.

“Then, you guys will always know where to find me, in case I go missing,” Danny said brightly.

Bond watched as Danny and Alex embraced, murmuring their _I’m sorrys_ and their _I love yous._

“Come on,” Q said, dragging Danny behind him, “if we have time, I’ll show you what I’m designing for Bond’s Christmas present.”

~

Three months later…

Barbara Bradford still hated math. She scratched a tally mark on the door frame for each of the ninety days she spent in jail. The wood was covered in a peeling paint that once was white when it was new. On Sundays, the warden gave her a ream of blank paper that she could use to write to friends, but there was no one to whom she could write. Instead, she folded the paper into origami animals that she’d make talk to each other when she was bored.

She tried to make an origami cat, like the one she had seen in the photographs Mr. Blofeld had sent her. The same cat she had seen on the floor of a safehouse flat that she was charged with cleaning. It was futile. The paper kept ripping before she even got to considering how she would shape the cat’s white ears.

During exercise time, she rarely mingled with the other girls who were held in the confines of the four walls. She felt lucky that she would be leaving them soon. No visitors came to call on her during the ninety days that passed. Not that she expected to have company. 

The one man who had paid any attention to her was no longer permitted to write. She wondered what had become of him, but her thoughts only rested on him briefly. Because of her plain looks and marginal intelligence, her potential for marriage or a career were still few. If Mr. Blofeld was imprisoned for as long as she had read that he would be, she had little hope of reuniting with him, no matter what he promised her in his letters.

She wondered if she would see her father again. Would the same luck find her as it did that distant day when George ran into Ingmar, who gave her the job of waiting on tables at Le Papillon?

She couldn’t go back to her old job, not because she lied about being fired, a truth that Ingmar and Sylvan had undoubtedly read about in all of the newspapers that had been published since Mr. Blofeld’s trouble with the SIS. It turned out that his troubles stemmed from matters more serious than outstanding parking tickets. And now, she was known as his accomplice.

Barbara doubted that she would be able to draw a job-seeker’s allowance, since she had a criminal record. The notion of moving back to live with the Bradfords, who barely scraped by, filled her with dread.

She supposed she could try her hand at waitressing again, but certainly not at Le Papillon, where her mind would drift to the thoughts of four men living together.

~


	12. Chapter 12

One year later…

“Good evening, sir,” Diane greeted Bond when he entered the restaurant. 

Bond gave Diane a friendly nod and checked his Omega. Twenty minutes early, uncharacteristic for Bond, but he had been planning this gathering for a fortnight. None of his partners had dined at Sartoria yet, despite his many promises to take them there. He hoped the ambiance would appeal to the three of them.

Alex had cultivated an appreciation for the finer restaurants in London. When they were on mission abroad together, he didn’t hesitate to try something new, as long as it was expensive.

“The adage that you get what you pay for is often true,” Alex said on more than one occasion as he set his menu aside to address Bond directly.

Bond tended to agree.

Q preferred foods with a more exotic flavour, so Bond fretted minimally that Sartoria might not appeal to him. Fragrant curries and hot peppers appealed to Q’s senses the most. Bond had checked the menu before making reservations. Certain that Q would find something to his liking, Bond pulled the trigger and made the call.

At least he didn’t have to worry about Danny. Danny would bite into a Hot Pocket with the same fervour as he would a filet mignon. Bond smiled, knowing that Danny would approve of almost all the culinary selections that his three lovers would choose. Easy to please, Danny would take the time to nibble the food off his fork, an expression of pure joy on his face. Bond was certain that he would approve of the restaurant.

If his companions didn’t arrive soon, Bond decided that he would start on a martini without them.

“Bond, James Bond,” he informed Diane, “I have reservations.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” Diane said. “A table for four. It will be ready in a moment.”

Bond took a step backwards and straightened his tie. With his eyes on the door, he waited patiently. Walther in its holster, a knife strapped to his ankle, a bomb around his wrist, he had dressed down for his evening out. He wondered if, in the future, he would ever be able to get used to being unarmed. Probably not.

Diane would never suspect the weapons. Besides, what would she think if she learned that the men dining in her restaurant worked for MI6? Well, three of them, anyway. But after spending so much time with the agents and the Quartermaster, Danny was as knowledgeable about MI6 operations as a rookie agent, although he lacked the ability to hurt a fly.

Bond grinned, thinking of how Danny fit into their group of lovers who were licensed to kill. He was a puzzle piece that shouldn’t fit. He was the odd man out. But, of course, it was Danny who served as the glue that held the four of them together. If he hadn’t inherited Scottie’s beautiful home on Hampstead Heath, the four of them may have gone their separate ways.

“Mr. Bond, your table is ready,” Diane said. “If you will follow me, I will seat your dining companions when they arrive.”

Bond let Diane show him to his table. He ordered a martini, shaken not stirred, when he saw Danny enter the room. “And bring my partner a Neroli Tonic.”

“What’s that?” Danny asked, kissing Bond on the cheek.

“You’ll like it,” Bond said, “It’s fizzy.”

“Thanks, love,” Danny said, taking his seat across from him. “I took the Tube over so Q didn’t have to go out of his way to pick me up at home.”

“That was nice of you to think of him, but you shouldn’t let him keep the Jensen all to himself.”

Danny surveyed the room. He looked like he was checking to make sure no one could overhear, “I know, but he and Alex were so engrossed in that EM50 Project that I didn’t have the heart to make them stop work to come get me,” he whispered.

Bond shook his head. Danny was always so thoughtful. An outsider would never guess that sweet Danny fuelled Q’s fascination with sex that included a little bondage on the side.

Bond remembered Q’s grin when he and Alex opened the container that was labelled “UNCLAIMED PROPERTY” when Alex’s old flat was sold to a new owner. Bond had simply rolled his eyes when Danny chased them around the house wielding all manner of stainless steel implements of sexual delight. 

Poor Alex was scandalized so badly that, even to this day, the mere mention of the term “unclaimed property” turns his cheeks crimson. He never investigated the implements from the box. The closest he came to indulging Q, was when he used his strength to pin him to the bed while Bond and Danny ravished him. It was good enough for Alex. And it was good enough for Bond. In fact, Bond was relieved that Danny and Q left him out of their bondage play. He had been tied up and restrained too many times in his career as an agent to enjoy such shenanigans. He was satisfied to remain Q’s tender bed partner, while giving his full approval for Q’s experimentation with Danny. The four men’s willingness to cooperate with each other made their relationship work like no other Bond had ever experienced.

At last, Alex and Q arrived together, right on time. Diane showed them to the table, where Bond and Danny stood and greeted them.

Bond could not have been more nervous than if he was proposing marriage between the four of them. Before Diane left, he ordered a bottle of Sartoria’s finest champagne.

“Champagne?” Alex asked. “Is it a special occasion that I don’t know about?”

“You’ll know soon enough, my lovely,” Bond said.

Bond noticed immediately that Q looked panicked. He reached under the table to give his thigh an affectionate squeeze. “Nothing to worry about, dear,” he whispered.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Q said with a huff.

“I want to know what the surprise is,” Danny giggled. “I hope we’re getting a puppy.”

“No,” Q scowled.

“Pampuria and Turing would not appreciate that,” Alex said.

“Not even a little bit,” Bond said, hating to burst Danny’s bubble.

Diane arrived and opened the bottle of champagne, pouring four delicate glasses with the sparkling liquid. “I would like to propose a toast,” Bond said.

“You’re not proposing,” Q said with a look that could kill.

“I’m not proposing,” Bond assured him.

“What is it, then?” Danny asked.

“Danny,” Bond began.

“You’re proposing to Danny?” Q asked, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

“Will you stop,” Alex laughed.

Bond cleared his throat. “Danny,” he began again. “I love you dearly, but it has come to my attention that you do not possess a green thumb.”

Danny looked down and shrugged.

“And Scottie’s gardens are going to need tending when the warmer weather arrives,” Bond said.

“I told you that you should have hired a gardener last year,” Alex said, elbowing Danny.

“But there’s so much work to do to keep them up,” Danny complained. “It would cost a fortune.”

“You might say they need a _constant gardener,”_ Q said before bursting into a fit of laughter.

Danny, Alex, and Bond simply stared at him until he finished.

“It should be no secret to any of you that I will age out of the Double-oh Program in two years,” Bond continued.

“Here, here,” said Q.

“Seeing the state of Scottie’s gardens, at the end of last summer, has made reconsider my retirement,” Bond said, raising his glass of champagne. “I want more time to enjoy the gift of your company that I have done nothing to deserve. I hope you will all support my decision to retire from active duty, effective immediately.”

Danny leaped out of his seat to hug Bond, plastering kisses to his face. “No more getting sent to far off places where you’ll be shot,” he exclaimed.

“Of course we support you,” Alex said, clapping Bond on the shoulder. “Have you told M already?”

“She’s going to have kittens,” Q said, wiping a tear from his eye.

~

Ten years later…

Before her retirement party began, Eve stepped into the ladies’ room. She stood in front of the mirror and checked her appearance. The antique frame surrounded the mirror that ran the length of one wall of the room. Eve was no longer the young woman who had first arrived at MI6 orientation in hopes of getting a job, a career. The same mirror that she had glanced at, in her youth, hung from the same screws and bolts. It may have been taken down when the room was repainted, years ago, but it had been reattached on the same wall, using the same drilled holes that caught the bolts. Some things never change.

Eve had aged considerably well, despite the years of MI6 service that threatened to give her wrinkles around her eyes and a fat belly from dining with dignitaries who wanted something from the organization she helmed. It was a fair irony that her colleagues had chosen Elements as the restaurant for her retirement party.

Of course the restaurant was quite different from when it was called Le Papillon, in the days when Eve first visited with the lunch crowd from MI6. Sometimes the newer MI6 operatives who Eve commanded ate here five days a week. They couldn’t know how many times Eve herself had stood in front of this very mirror as a young woman, new to the spy game. If these walls could talk, indeed.

She ran her hand along the marble stand on which the sink basin perched. Such a new-age design would have been frowned upon by Ingmar when he owned the building. He preferred the art nouveau designs more than anything that could be considered mid twenty-first century contemporary.

Eve turned on the water and washed her hands before wiping them on a soft towel. Despite the closure of the Le Papillon that she knew, Eve thought that the owners who took Ingmar’s place did a good job of keeping the upscale ambiance. There were no paper towel dispensers like in the days of old. There was not even an electronic hand dryer that promised to obliterate any germs that the rush of purified air would meet. No, now an open cupboard of artfully rolled towels greeted the ladies.

Eve tossed her used towel into the small hamper. She took her lipstick from her purse and carefully re-applied the shade to her lips.

As she checked her reflection, Eve wondered what had happened to the beautiful sugar bowls, an Irish crystal with a hinged lid on each one that used to grace the tables at Le Papillon. She had heard Barbara catching hell one day for accidentally breaking one when she was too rough with bussing a table.

She stored her lipstick back in her purse and sighed. The sugar bowls were beautiful. A tiny half-circle interrupted the silver rim, so that the tiniest of sugar spoons could nestle there in the bowl, just waiting for someone to use it. They had all been smashed to pieces by now, no doubt.

The door of the ladies’ room opened, stopping Eve’s reminiscence. She turned so she could see who had interrupted her thoughts.

“Sorry,” I didn’t mean to startle you,” the intruder said.

“Not at all,” Eve said with a wave of her hand.

The woman stood beside Eve while she tidied the springs of hair that she had pulled back with a tasteful headpiece. It seemed like only yesterday that her hair had no grey. She could walk effortlessly in her stilettos. Now her hair was streaked with silver and she had traded her stilettos for a pair of sensible flats, not unlike the ones that the woman beside her wore.

“It’s a fine day for a party,” the woman said.

Eve’s eyes met hers and dawned with recognition.

“Barbara?” Eve felt her heart rate increase.

“I’m here with friend, I’m not… I don’t work here,” Barbara said.

Eve was torn between greeting Barbara as an old friend or as the head of MI6 who should exercise extreme caution around a woman who once caused so much grief among her colleagues.

“No, I didn’t think you did,” Eve said.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the woman who had the talent to be so much more than a server in a restaurant. Surely there was something to be said for being able to identify cat breeds as she could.

Eve had drawn on her own talents and powers of observation to build a life. She may have started her career as a budding field agent in training, but because of her excellent attention to detail and her powers of observation, she had risen to the top of her field.

The government saw to the rest.

Eve had moved her way up the ranks, identifying problems and making the decisions that would guide all MI6 operations until eventually, there was only one more step to go. On a bright sunny day, a few weeks after Mallory resigned, she was named the head of MI6… M. And now she would retire from that position with honour.

“I’m sorry,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry about what happened all those years ago. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done the things I did to befriend Mr. Blofeld.”

Eve felt some small measure of relief that Barbara had recognised the need to apologise, although it was barely enough to give her a momentary pass. 

Eve steadied herself. “We are all sinners in the hands of an angry god,” she said. “But sometimes his anger wanes. Sometimes there is peace to be found among the ruins of the lives you’ve changed, the havoc you’ve wreaked, or the missions you’ve completed.”

“I think I’ve found some of that peace, finally,” Barbara said.

Eve struggled to sound sincere, but she managed better than she would have years ago. “It was good to see you again,” she said.

“It was good to see you again, too,” Barbara said before leaving Eve with her reflection.

Eve waited until the door closed before she checked her lipstick one last time. “Well, this will have to do,” she said.

Eve emerged from the ladies’ room and entered the restaurant. She was delighted to see so many faces of those with whom she had risen in the ranks, her colleagues, and those who she had commanded during her tenure. Even Bond and his scrappy boy toy made a rare appearance as Q and Double-oh Nine’s plus ones.

This was going to be one hell of a retirement party. Her friends applauded as if she were their long lost mother.

~ The end ~


End file.
